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

Dread rivals, splashing through the dirty road,
With thund'ring specimens of ode,
The lyric bundles on each poet's back,
Intent to gain the stipend and the sack,
See Mason, Hayley, to the palace scamper,
Like porters sweating underneath a hamper!
And see the hacks of Nichols' Magazine
Rush, loyal, to berhime a king and queen;
And see, full speed, to get the tuneful job,
The bellman's heart, with hopes of vict'ry, throb.

O thou, whate'er thy name, thy trade, thy art,
Who from obscurity art doom'd to start,
Call'd, by the royal mandate, to proclaim,
To distant realms a monarch's feeble fame—
For fame of kings, like cripples in the gout,
Demands a crutch to move about—

Whoe'er thou art, that winn'st the envied prize,
O, if for royal smile thy bosom sighs,
Of pig-economy exalt the praise;—
O flatter sheep and bullocks in thy lays!
To saving wisdom boldly strike the strings,
And justify the grazier-trade in kings.

144

Descant on ducks, and geese, and cocks, and hens,
Hay-stacks, and dairies, cow-houses, and pens;
Descant on dung-hills, ev'ry sort of kine;
And in the pretty article of swine.

Inform us, without loss, to twig
The stomach of a feeding calf, or cow;
And tell us, economic, how
To steal a dinner from a fatt'ning pig;
And, bard, to make us still more blest, declare
How hogs and bullocks may grow fat on air.

Sing how the king of Naples sells his fish,
And from his stomach cribs the daintiest dish;
Sing, to his subjects how he sells his game,
So fierce for dying rich the monarch's flame:

Sing of th' economy of German quality;
Emp'rors, electors, dead to hospitality;
Margraves, and miserable dukes,
Who squeeze their subjects, and who starve their cooks:—
Such be the burthen of thy birth-day song,
And, lo, our court will listen all day long.

Tom prov'd unequal to the laureat's place;
He warbled with an attic grace:
The language was not understood at court,
Where bow and curt'sy, grin and shrug, resort;
Sorrow for sickness, joy for health, so civil;
And love, that wish'd each other to the devil!

Tom was a scholar—luckless wight!
Lodg'd with old manners in a musty college;
He knew not that a palace hated knowledge,
And deem'd it pedantry to spell and write.
Tom heard of royal libraries, indeed,
And, weakly, fancied that the books were read;

He knew not that an author's sense
Was, at a palace, not worth finding;
That what to notice gave a book pretence,
Was solely paper, print, and binding?

145

Some folks had never known, with all their wit,
Old Pindar's name, nor occupation,
Had not I started forth—a lucky hit,
And prov'd myself the Theban bard's relation.

The names of Drummond, Boldero, and Hoare,
Though strangers to Apollo's tuneful ear,
Are discords that the palace-folks adore,
Sweet as sincerity, as honour dear!

The name of Homer, none are found to know
So much the banker soars beyond the poet;
For courts prefer, so classically weak,
A guinea's music to the noise of Greek:
Menin aeide thea, empty sounds,
How mean to—‘Pay the bearer fifty pounds!’

Angels, and ministers of grace, what's here?
See suppliant Sal'sb'ry to the bard appear!
He sighs—upon his knuckles he is down!—
His lordship begs I'll take the poet's crown.

Avaunt, my lord!—Solicitation, fly!
I'll not be zany to a king, not I:
I'll be no monarch's humble thrush,
To whistle from the laurel bush;
Or, rather, a tame owl, to hoot
Whene'er it shall my masters suit.

I have no flatt'ries cut and dried—no varnish
For royal qualities, so apt to tarnish,
Expos'd a little to the biting air:
I've got a soul, and so no lies to spare;—
Besides, too proud to sing for hire,
I scorn to touch a venal lyre.

Avaunt, ye sceptred vulgar—purpled, ermin'd!
The muse shall make no mummies, I'm determin'd.
World, call her prostitute, bawd, dirty b---,
If meanly once she deals in spice and pitch;
And saves a carcase, by its lyric balm,
So putrid, which the very worms must damn.