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

Gentles! behold a poor plain-spoken man!
Modest as Addington our Speaker,
Amidst Saint Stephen's patriotic clan,
Where Innocence so meek did ne'er look meeker;

When with much palpitation, and much dread,
He turn'd about his pretty Speaker's head,
One leg just rais'd to hop into the chair;
Just like a cat in rain amid the street,
That fears to wet her white and velvet feet,
Which for a handsome gutter-leap prepare!

‘I fear I am a most unworthy choice,’
Said Mister Speaker, with a lamb-like voice!
‘I have but one step more,’ he cried,
Keeping his head coquettishly aside.

How much like Christie, with his hammer rais'd
(Christie, a public speaker too, so prais'd),
Looking around him, simpering, smiling, bowing,
Then crying—‘Gemmen, going, going, going!’

Yes, gentles all, a modest bard, and shy,
With dove-like mien, and ground-exploring eye;

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Modest as Mister Speaker at the Lords,
When lowly he did majesty beseech
T' allow his humble Commons use of words;
That is to say, a liberty of speech:

Also to have at times a tête-à-tête,
Because a confab royal is a treat;
Indeed for subjects much too rich,
As wise King James asserted of the itch:

Likewise to have the privilege of tick,
Because a bailiff is a meddling rogue,
Who, with a hand of iron, or a stick,
Stoppeth the travels of our men of vogue!
Barbarian act, that men of worship frets!
Who think of loftier things than idle debts;
Deep pond'ring ever on the nation's good,
Not on great greasy butchers, tailor knaves,
Mercers and clammy grocers—compter slaves,
Who, by their stinking sweat, procure their food.

Tradesmen! a set of vulgar swine;
Crutches for Fortune in a deep decline:
Lo what a tradesman's good for, and lo all—
A wooden buttress for a tott'ring wall!

With tears have I beheld full many a 'squire
Most brutally by bailiffs dragg'd along;
For turnpike, furniture, or house's hire,
Horse, wages, coach, or some such idle song!

Now 'squire's a title of much reputation—
Belongs to people of no—occupation;
Who cannot (in their looks we read it)
Get, for a mutton-chop, a little credit!
Poor gentlemen! how hard, alas! their fate,
To knuckle to such nuisances of state!

Gentles, to you, well pleas'd, I turn again,
Quitting my fav'rite rambling strain;
Leaving belov'd, admir'd, ador'd digression,
So practis'd by us men of ode-profession,

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When we have scarcely aught to sing or say,
And sneaking fancy quits the lyric lay.

I do remember!—What?—That thus my pen
Licentious, slander'd crown-and-sceptre men!
‘Readers, one moment look me in the face;
A poet not quite destitute of grace;
And answer one not bred in Flatt'ry's schools—
Are you, or are you not, a set of fools!
Pinning your faith on Grandeur's sleeve—
Say, do you, in your consciences, believe
That m---s never can be weak nor mean;
And that a m---'s wife, yclept a ------,
May not (and why not?) be a downright slop,
Form'd of the coarsest rags of Nature's shop?
I read the answer in each visage’—‘No.’
‘O Jesu! can it be? and is it so?
Put down my book—
Give it not one contaminating look:
I stare on you with pity—nay, with pain—
Kearsley shall toss your money back again:
Get your crowns shav'd, poor souls—I wish you well—
And hear me—Bedlam has a vacant cell.’

Such were the stanzas that I wrote of yore,
When tainted by a king-deriding clan;
But now I curse those tenets o'er and o'er—
A convert quite—a sweet and alter'd man:

The sacred force of sov'reignty I feel—
To royalty's stern port I learn to kneel—
For royalties are deem'd most sacred things;
So sacred by the courtiers, that the Bible
May be inform'd against, and prov'd a libel,
For saying—‘Put no confidence in kings!’

Though this indeed may be interpolation,
As much was coin'd by Popish priests and friars;
For ah! how hard 'tis for imagination
To fancy monarchs hypocrites and liars!