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

The modern French deem monarchs much like fire,
Which a good looking-after doth require—
Too much inclin'd to prove an evil;
A fire that needeth to be well secur'd,
Well iron'd, pinion'd, and immur'd,
Which otherwise would play the devil:
Yet if on politics a bard may prate,
I deem their monarch's jacket rather strait.
Mesdames Poissardes, 'twas shockingly ill bred,
To fling your flounders at your monarch's head.
Though, Venus-like, descended from the flood,
'Twas base, ye sweet divinities of mud.
To this great truth, a universe agrees,
‘He who lies down with dogs, will rise with fleas.’

How applicable! lo, you took advice,
I'm sure, from that arch-devil, Doctor Price,

195

And Stanhope—who so praise the French and clap,
For catching kings, like polecats, in a trap.

O may I never be—but were I king,
Like ropes should I consider laws;
Preventing, when I wish'd it, a good spring—
Hand-cuffs to bind my lion claws.

A set of articles implies mistrust—
How can the Lord's anointed be unjust!
We never should believe such things
As doubt the wisdom of the King of kings:
What the Lord chooses must be good,
Although he sent us but a piece of wood.
Ev'n Chesterfield , that atheistic dog,
Declares he has a rev'rence for King Log.
‘When will that lucky day be born, that brings
A bridle for the arrogance of kings?
Too slowly moves, alas! the loit'ring hour.
When will those tyrants cease to fancy man
A dog in Providence's lev'ling plan,
To crouch and lick the blood-stain'd rods of pow'r?’
Such is your most unkingly cry—
And lo, I tell it with a sigh!

Rank is in man the itch of opposition,
Which wanteth a good whip for a physician.
You keep bad company that turns your head—
So hungrily you ev'ry thing devour,
That tends to clip the wings of royal pow'r,
Which like the eagle's pinion ought to spread;
So greedily suck in Rebellion's breath,
That wafts the seeds of impudence and death.

Thus, hound-like, at a lord-mayor's feast,
A common-councilman, a beast,
On ev'ry season'd dish so hungry stuffs—
Unbuttons, wipes the sweat away, and puffs.

196

Poor fool! he swallows rheumatism and gout,
Asthma and apoplexy—and more ills
Than doctors, with their knowledges so stout,
Can vanquish with their bolusses and pills!

But, sirs, you must be cautious how you act;
Attorney-general is no reasoning thing!
'Tis an indubitable fact,
This fellow is the creature of a king;
His eagle—thunder-bearer—loud his cry—
And ‘Instant vengeance’ is his sole reply.
'Tis dangerous to shake hands with such hard claws,
His gripe enough to make the bravest pause!

Then be not at your midnight orgies seen,
Buzzing opinions upon king and queen.
Ah! should he sally forth so strong,
Amidst your wantonness of speech and song;
Unlin'd by mercy, you will feel his gripe,
Stopping the melody of many a pipe.

Thus at the solemn, still, and sunless hour,
When to their sports the insect nations pour:

In airy tumult blest, the light-wing'd throng,
Thoughtless of enemies in ambuscade,
Hums to night's list'ning ear the choral song,
And wantons through the boundless field of shade;
When, lo! the mouse-fac'd demon of the gloom,
Espying, hungry meditates their doom!

Bounce, from his hole so secret bursts the bat,
To honour, mercy, moderation, lost!
Behold him sally on the humming host,
And murd'rous overturn the tribes of gnat;
Nimbly from right to left, like Tippoo, wheel,
And snap ten thousand pris'ners at a meal!

‘I confess I have some regard for King Log.’ Vide his Letters.