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

My lords, I won't consent to be a bug,
To batten in the royal rug,
And on the backs of monarchs meanly crawl,
And more, my lords, I hope I never shall.
Yet certain vermin I can mention, love it,
You know the miserables that can prove it,
I cannot, Papist-like (a dupe to kings),
Create divinities from wooden things.

Somewhere in Asia—I forget the place—
Ceylon I think it is—Yes, yes, I'm right;
There kings are deem'd of heav'nly race,
And blasphemy it is their pow'r to slight.

Like crouching spaniels down black lords must lie,
When'er admitted to the royal eye,
And say, whene'er the mighty monarch chats
To those black lords about their wives and brats,
That happen in the world to tumble;
‘Dread sire your slave and bitch my wife,
Hath brought to bless your dog so humble,
One, two, three, four, five puppies into life;
All subject to your godlike will and pow'r,
To hang or drown in half an hour.’

This is too servile, I must dare confess—
'Twixt man and man the diff'rence should be less.

I own I brought two wond'ring eyes to town,
Got bent by mobs my ribs like any hoop,
To see the mighty man who wore a crown—
To see the man to whom great courtiers stoop.

Much had I read, which certés some time since is,
My Bible so replete with kings and princes,
And thought kings taller than my parish steeple;
I thought too, which was natural enough,
Jove made their skins of very diff'rent stuff
From that which clothes the bones of common people.

But mark! by staring, gaping, ev'ry day,
The edge of admiration wore away,
Like razors' edges rubb'd against a stone;
Kings ceas'd to be such objects of devotion,
I saw the beings soon without emotion,
And thought like mine their bodies flesh and bone.

Like many thousands, I was weak enough
To think Jove kept a soul and body shop—
Like mercers, had variety of stuff,
For such whose turn it was to be made up;

And that he treated with great liberality
Folks born to figure in the line of quality;
Giving souls superfine, and bones and bloods,
In short, the choicest of cœlestial goods:

But on the lower classes when employ'd,
It struck me, that he work'd with much sang froid,
Not caring one brass farthing for the chaps;
Forming them just as girls themselves amuse
In making workbags, pincushions, and shoes—
Videlicet—from scraps.

Now can't I give a thimblefull of praise,
E'en to an emp'ror, if uncrown'd by merit;
A starving principle, 'faith now a-days,
And unconnected with the courtier's spirit—
You, sirs, I think, can give it with a ladle,
And rock of grinning idiotism the cradle.