The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

THERE is a little moral thing in France,
Call'd by the natives bienseance;
Much are the English mob inclin'd to scout it,
But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it.

To bienseanee 'tis tedious to incline,
In many cases;
To flatter, par exemple, keep smooth faces
When kick'd, or suff'ring grievous want of coin.

To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity—
I deem it a most portable commodity;
A sort of magic wand,
Which, if 'tis us'd with ingenuity,
Although an utensil of much tenuity,
In place of something solid, it will stand.

For verily I've marvell'd times enow
To see an Englishman, the ninny,
Give people for their services a guinea,
Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow.

Bows are a bit of bienseance
Much practis'd too in that same France;
Yet call'd by quakers, children of inanity;
But as they pay their court to people's vanity,
Like rolling-pins they smooth where'er they go
The souls and faces of mankind like dough!
With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail
To folly—see the under-written tale.

THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL.

AT Paris some time since, a murd'ring man,
A German, and a most unlucky chap,

Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan,
Fell into justice's strong trap.

The bungler was condemn'd to grace the wheel,
On which the dullest fibres learn to feel;
His limbs secundum artem to be broke
Amidst ten thousand people, p'rhaps, or more:
Whenever Monsieur Ketch apply'd a stroke,
The culprit, like a bullock, made a roar.

A flippant petit-maitre skipping by
Stepp'd up to him, and check'd him for his cry—
‘Boh!’ quoth the German; ‘an't I 'pon de wheel?
D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?’

‘Sir,’ quoth the beau, ‘don't, don't be in a passion;
I've nought to say about your situation;
But making such a hideous noise in France,
Fellow, is contrary to bienseance.’