The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
81
ODE XVII.
Just one word more, my lords, before we part—Do not vow vengeance on the tuneful art;
'Tis very dangerous to attack a poet—
Also ridiculous—the end would show it.
Though not to write—to read I hear you're able:—
Read, then, and learn instruction from a fable.
THE PIG AND MAGPIE,
A FABLE.
COCKING his tail, a saucy prig,
A magpie hopp'd upon a pig,
To pull some hair, forsooth, to line his nest;
And with such ease began the hair attack,
As thinking the fee simple of the back
Was by himself, and not the pig possest.
A magpie hopp'd upon a pig,
To pull some hair, forsooth, to line his nest;
And with such ease began the hair attack,
As thinking the fee simple of the back
Was by himself, and not the pig possest.
The boar look'd up as thunder black to Mag,
Who, squinting down on him like an arch wag,
Inform'd mynheer some bristles must be torn;
Then busy went to work, not nicely culling;
Got a good handsome beakful by good pulling,
And flew, without a ‘Thank ye,’ to his thorn.
Who, squinting down on him like an arch wag,
Inform'd mynheer some bristles must be torn;
Then busy went to work, not nicely culling;
Got a good handsome beakful by good pulling,
And flew, without a ‘Thank ye,’ to his thorn.
The pig set up a dismal yelling;
Follow'd the robber to his dwelling,
Who, like a fool, had built it midst a bramble:
In manfully he sallied, full of might,
Determin'd to obtain his right,
And midst the bushes now began to scramble.
Follow'd the robber to his dwelling,
Who, like a fool, had built it midst a bramble:
In manfully he sallied, full of might,
Determin'd to obtain his right,
And midst the bushes now began to scramble.
He drove the magpie, tore his nest to rags,
And, happy on the downfall, pour'd his brags:
But ere he from the brambles came, alack!
His ears and eyes were miserably torn,
His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn,
He could not count ten hairs upon his back.
This is a pretty tale my lords, and pat:
And, happy on the downfall, pour'd his brags:
But ere he from the brambles came, alack!
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His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn,
He could not count ten hairs upon his back.
To folks like you, so clever, verbum sat.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |