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] |  |
219
THE REMONSTRANCE; TO WHICH IS ADDED AN ODE TO MY ASS ALSO THE MAGPIE AND ROBIN, A TALE; AN APOLOGY FOR KINGS; AND AN ADDRESS TO MY PAMPHLET.
Integer vitæ scelerisque purus, &c. &c.
HOR. The man of dove-like innocence a sample,
So sweet! so mild! myself now, for example,
Disdains of Gossip Fame the tittle tattle!
He begs no news-paper to fight his battle—
Unmov'd, with equal eye on all he looks;
The Lord's anointed, and his lousy cooks.
HOR. The man of dove-like innocence a sample,
So sweet! so mild! myself now, for example,
Disdains of Gossip Fame the tittle tattle!
He begs no news-paper to fight his battle—
Unmov'd, with equal eye on all he looks;
The Lord's anointed, and his lousy cooks.
I deem'd rude Clamour, in my days of youth,
The solemn voice of all-commanding Truth;
But now, no more creating awe and wonder:
Old empty hogsheads, rumbling in a cart,
That make some people gape, and stare, and start,
As well may tell me, ‘We're the noble thunder.’
P. PINDAR.
The solemn voice of all-commanding Truth;
But now, no more creating awe and wonder:
Old empty hogsheads, rumbling in a cart,
That make some people gape, and stare, and start,
As well may tell me, ‘We're the noble thunder.’
P. PINDAR.
221
ODE.
Wide gapes the thoughtless mouth of moon-ey'd wonder,
Whilst ‘gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder,’
With Calumny's dark hounds the bard pursue:
‘Bring on his marrow-bones th' apostate down,
The turncoat is a flatt'rer of the crown;
Burn all his verses, burn the author too:’
Whilst ‘gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder,’
With Calumny's dark hounds the bard pursue:
‘Bring on his marrow-bones th' apostate down,
The turncoat is a flatt'rer of the crown;
Burn all his verses, burn the author too:’
Such is the sound of millions! such the roar
Of billows booming on the rocky shore!
‘How chang'd his note! (they cry) now spinning rhimes,
In compliment to monarchs of the times,
Who lately felt no mercy from his rancour;
The star-bedizen'd sycophants of state,
Blue-ribbon'd knaves have brib'd his pliant hate;
Behold him at St. James's snug at anchor.’
Of billows booming on the rocky shore!
‘How chang'd his note! (they cry) now spinning rhimes,
In compliment to monarchs of the times,
Who lately felt no mercy from his rancour;
The star-bedizen'd sycophants of state,
Blue-ribbon'd knaves have brib'd his pliant hate;
Behold him at St. James's snug at anchor.’
Thus on my ears, so patient let me say,
They pour their rough, rude peals of groundless clamour;
Battering, pell mell, upon my head away,
Just like on anvils the smith's sledge and hammer!
Howe'er the world in scorn may shake its head,
Nor knave nor fool through me shall current pass;
Too honest yet, I thank my stars, to spread
The muse's silver o'er a lump of brass.
They pour their rough, rude peals of groundless clamour;
Battering, pell mell, upon my head away,
Just like on anvils the smith's sledge and hammer!
222
Nor knave nor fool through me shall current pass;
Too honest yet, I thank my stars, to spread
The muse's silver o'er a lump of brass.
I own the voice of Censure very proper;
Greatly resembling a tobacco-stopper;
Confining all the seeds of fire so stout,
And quick in growth, when left to run about:
Greatly resembling a tobacco-stopper;
Confining all the seeds of fire so stout,
And quick in growth, when left to run about:
But possibly I'm harden'd—yes, I fear
Her frequent strokes have form'd a callous ear.
Her frequent strokes have form'd a callous ear.
There was a time when Peter ghost-like star'd
When Censure thunder'd!—star'd with awe profound;
With sighs to deprecate her wrath, prepar'd;
So chill'd with horror at the solemn sound!
But harden'd, soon he gave his ague o'er;
Look'd up, and smil'd, and thought of her no more.
When Censure thunder'd!—star'd with awe profound;
With sighs to deprecate her wrath, prepar'd;
So chill'd with horror at the solemn sound!
But harden'd, soon he gave his ague o'er;
Look'd up, and smil'd, and thought of her no more.
Thus when an earthquake bids Jamaica tremble;
On Sunday all the folks to church assemble,
To sooth Jehovah, so devoutly studying—
Prostrate they vow to keep his holy laws:
Returning home, they smite their hungry craws,
And scarce indulge them with a slice of pudding—
Deeming, in earth-quake time, a dainty board,
A sad abomination to the Lord!
On Sunday all the folks to church assemble,
To sooth Jehovah, so devoutly studying—
Prostrate they vow to keep his holy laws:
Returning home, they smite their hungry craws,
And scarce indulge them with a slice of pudding—
Deeming, in earth-quake time, a dainty board,
A sad abomination to the Lord!
Ere Sunday comes again, their hearts recover;
The tempest of their fears blown over,
Fled ev'ry terror of the burning lake,
They think they have no business now with church;
So, calmly leave th' Almighty in the lurch,
And sin it—till he gives a second shake.
The tempest of their fears blown over,
Fled ev'ry terror of the burning lake,
They think they have no business now with church;
So, calmly leave th' Almighty in the lurch,
And sin it—till he gives a second shake.
The ladies too have join'd the gen'ral cry!
What! those divinities in Peter's eye!
Angels in petticoats!—it ill behoves 'em:
What! bite the constant Stentor of their praise,
Who robb'd the muses of their sweetest lays,
To tell the world how much he loves 'em!
What! those divinities in Peter's eye!
Angels in petticoats!—it ill behoves 'em:
What! bite the constant Stentor of their praise,
Who robb'd the muses of their sweetest lays,
To tell the world how much he loves 'em!
223
The bard, who vouches for their harmless souls,
And like another Cicero persuades,
The phrensy'd eye of admiration rolls—
Ready to kneel and worship 'em—Oh jades!
And like another Cicero persuades,
The phrensy'd eye of admiration rolls—
Ready to kneel and worship 'em—Oh jades!
Ladies and gentlemen,
Know, that I scorn a prostituted pen:
No royal rotten wood, my verse veneers—
O yield me, for a moment yield your ears.
Know, that I scorn a prostituted pen:
No royal rotten wood, my verse veneers—
O yield me, for a moment yield your ears.
Stubborn, and mean, and weak, nay fools indeed,
Though kings may be, we must support the breed.
Yet join I issue with you—yes, 'tis granted,
That through the world such royal folly rules,
As bids us think thrones advertise for fools;
Yet is a king a utensil much wanted—
Though kings may be, we must support the breed.
Yet join I issue with you—yes, 'tis granted,
That through the world such royal folly rules,
As bids us think thrones advertise for fools;
Yet is a king a utensil much wanted—
A screw, a nail, a bolt, to keep together
The ship's old leaky sides in stormy weather;
Which screw, or nail, or bolt, its work performs,
Though downright ignorant of ships and storms.
The ship's old leaky sides in stormy weather;
Which screw, or nail, or bolt, its work performs,
Though downright ignorant of ships and storms.
I knuckle not—I owe not to the great
A thimble-full of obligation;
Nor luscious wife have I, their lips to treat,
To lift me to Preferment's sunny station;
A thimble-full of obligation;
Nor luscious wife have I, their lips to treat,
To lift me to Preferment's sunny station;
Like many a gentleman whom love promotes,
Whose lofty front the ray of gold adorns;
Resembling certain most ingenious goats,
That climb up precipices by their horns.
Whose lofty front the ray of gold adorns;
Resembling certain most ingenious goats,
That climb up precipices by their horns.
I'm not oblig'd (believe my honest word)
To kiss—what shall I call 't?—of any lord:
Not pepper-corn acknowledgement I owe 'em;
Nay, like the God of truth, I scarcely know 'em.
To kiss—what shall I call 't?—of any lord:
Not pepper-corn acknowledgement I owe 'em;
Nay, like the God of truth, I scarcely know 'em.
By me unprais'd are dukes and earls:
At such most commonly my satire snarls—
My pride like theirs the high-nos'd elves,
Who love what's equal only to themselves.
At such most commonly my satire snarls—
My pride like theirs the high-nos'd elves,
Who love what's equal only to themselves.
224
As for court virtues, wheresoe'er they lie,
I leave them all to Mister Laureat Pye,
The fashionable bard, whom courts revere;
Who trotteth, with a grave and goodly pace,
Deep laden with his sov'reign, twice a year,
Around Parnassus's old famous base:
Not only proving his great king alive,
But that, like docks, the royal virtues thrive.
I leave them all to Mister Laureat Pye,
The fashionable bard, whom courts revere;
Who trotteth, with a grave and goodly pace,
Deep laden with his sov'reign, twice a year,
Around Parnassus's old famous base:
Not only proving his great king alive,
But that, like docks, the royal virtues thrive.
But I'm not qualified to be a hack;
Too proud to carry lumber on my back:—
Too dainty is my lady muse, I hope,
Into a coalshed to convert her shop:
Her shop indeed—a very handsome room,
Fill'd with rich spices and Parnassian bloom.
Too proud to carry lumber on my back:—
Too dainty is my lady muse, I hope,
Into a coalshed to convert her shop:
Her shop indeed—a very handsome room,
Fill'd with rich spices and Parnassian bloom.
Court poets must create—on trifles rant—
Make something out of nothing—Lord, I can't!
Bards must bid virtues crowd on kings in swarms,
However from such company remote;—
Just as good-natur'd heralds make up arms
For nabob-robbers born without a coat.
Make something out of nothing—Lord, I can't!
Bards must bid virtues crowd on kings in swarms,
However from such company remote;—
Just as good-natur'd heralds make up arms
For nabob-robbers born without a coat.
I'm a poor botching tailor for a court,
Low bred on liver, and what clowns call mugget :
Besides, what greatly too my gains would hurt,
I cannot sew gold lace upon a drugget.
Low bred on liver, and what clowns call mugget :
Besides, what greatly too my gains would hurt,
I cannot sew gold lace upon a drugget.
Say not I'm turn'd towards the scepter'd great:
Talk not of kings—I deem one half a cheat:
Felt is their weakness—husks, mere husks of men!
Yes, they create nobility—I know it;
The veriest idiot of them all can do it,
And on the falcon's perch can place the wren.
Talk not of kings—I deem one half a cheat:
Felt is their weakness—husks, mere husks of men!
Yes, they create nobility—I know it;
The veriest idiot of them all can do it,
And on the falcon's perch can place the wren.
But can a king command th' ethereal flame
That clothes with immortality a name?
Oh, could the race that fire ethereal catch!
But no such privilege to kings is giv'n:
So very low their int'rest lies in heav'n,
They can't command enough to light a match.
That clothes with immortality a name?
Oh, could the race that fire ethereal catch!
225
So very low their int'rest lies in heav'n,
They can't command enough to light a match.
No, sirs, and therefore pray be civil;
I've not yet bargain'd with the devil.
I've not yet bargain'd with the devil.
Yet grant me sold—I've precedents a store;
Besides, we poets are confounded poor;
And, ah! how hard to starve, to please Morality!
For Hunger, though a fav'rite of old saints,
Whose pinching virtue pious hist'ry paints,
Is reckon'd now a fellow of bad quality:
Not deem'd a gentleman—can't show his face,
Ev'n where Saint Peter's children give the grace!
Besides, we poets are confounded poor;
And, ah! how hard to starve, to please Morality!
For Hunger, though a fav'rite of old saints,
Whose pinching virtue pious hist'ry paints,
Is reckon'd now a fellow of bad quality:
Not deem'd a gentleman—can't show his face,
Ev'n where Saint Peter's children give the grace!
A rosy sinner, Luxury yclept,
Long in his place hath eat, and drunk, and slept.
Long in his place hath eat, and drunk, and slept.
Yes, (as I've said) we bards are mostly poor,
Can scarcely drive gaunt Famine from the door!
That Helicon's a hellish stream, God knows!
Ah me! most rarely it Pactolian flows:
Though sharp as hawks, and hungry too, and thick,
Few are the golden grains that poets pick;
And yet each new advent'rer of the Nine,
Deems all Parnassus one mere golden mine.
Can scarcely drive gaunt Famine from the door!
That Helicon's a hellish stream, God knows!
Ah me! most rarely it Pactolian flows:
Though sharp as hawks, and hungry too, and thick,
Few are the golden grains that poets pick;
And yet each new advent'rer of the Nine,
Deems all Parnassus one mere golden mine.
All this by way of wild digression—
And now for my political confession.
And now for my political confession.
Again, ye Crown-and-Anchor sinners,
I reprobate your revolution dinners.
Nature at times makes wretched wares;
(Amongst the smiling corn like cares)
Men with such miserable souls!
Nought pleases, from the moment of their birth;
With horror for a while they blot the earth,
Then crab-like, crawl into their burying-holes.
I reprobate your revolution dinners.
Nature at times makes wretched wares;
(Amongst the smiling corn like cares)
Men with such miserable souls!
Nought pleases, from the moment of their birth;
With horror for a while they blot the earth,
Then crab-like, crawl into their burying-holes.
226
How like a dreary dull December day,
That shows his muddy discontented head,
Low'rs on the world awhile, then moves away
In gloom and sullenness to bed!
That shows his muddy discontented head,
Low'rs on the world awhile, then moves away
In gloom and sullenness to bed!
Have not our revolution host a few
Of souls of this same Æthiop hue?
Of souls of this same Æthiop hue?
Permit me, sirs, to tell you, ye are mad;
Your case, although not mortal, yet quite bad:
An ugly inflammation of the brain.
Although a dull physician, I could find
Something to calm the hurry of the mind,
And bring you back to common sense again—
The stocks would do it, gentlemen, or jails:
A heavy nostrum—yet it rarely fails.
Your case, although not mortal, yet quite bad:
An ugly inflammation of the brain.
Although a dull physician, I could find
Something to calm the hurry of the mind,
And bring you back to common sense again—
The stocks would do it, gentlemen, or jails:
A heavy nostrum—yet it rarely fails.
Lo, Drunkenness, a blust'ring, bullying blade,
The cock'd hat covering half one eye so brave,
As though dread valour were his meat, his trade,
Nature a driv'ler, and the world his slave:
He rants, roars, prays, howls, swears, on boldly goes,
To seize sun, moon, and planets, by the nose;
The cock'd hat covering half one eye so brave,
As though dread valour were his meat, his trade,
Nature a driv'ler, and the world his slave:
He rants, roars, prays, howls, swears, on boldly goes,
To seize sun, moon, and planets, by the nose;
When lo, Night's long-staff'd guardian to him steals,
Squints with one eye on him, and then the other;
To pillow well his head, trips up his heels,
And lays him on old earth, our common mother—
Squints with one eye on him, and then the other;
To pillow well his head, trips up his heels,
And lays him on old earth, our common mother—
Thence at the round-house, in about an hour,
Renews his poor debilitated pow'r
Of comprehending, feeling, hearing, seeing—
Yet is this watchman too a heavy being.
Renews his poor debilitated pow'r
Of comprehending, feeling, hearing, seeing—
Yet is this watchman too a heavy being.
Keel up lies France!—long may she keep that posture!
Her knav'ry, folly, on the rocks have toss'd her;
Behold the thousands that surround the wreck!
Her cables parted, rudder gone,
Split all her sails, her main-mast down,
Choak'd all her pumps, broke in her deck;
Sport for the winds, the billows o'er her roll!
Now am I glad of it with all my soul.
Her knav'ry, folly, on the rocks have toss'd her;
Behold the thousands that surround the wreck!
Her cables parted, rudder gone,
Split all her sails, her main-mast down,
Choak'd all her pumps, broke in her deck;
Sport for the winds, the billows o'er her roll!
Now am I glad of it with all my soul.
227
France lifts the busy sword of blood no more;
Lost to its giant grasp the wither'd hand:
O say, what kingdom can her fate deplore,
The dark disturber of each happy land?
Lost to its giant grasp the wither'd hand:
O say, what kingdom can her fate deplore,
The dark disturber of each happy land?
To Britain an insidious damn'd Iägo—
Remember, Englishmen, old Cato's cry,
And keep that patriot model in your eye—
His constant cry, ‘Delenda est Carthago.’
Remember, Englishmen, old Cato's cry,
And keep that patriot model in your eye—
His constant cry, ‘Delenda est Carthago.’
France is our Carthage, that sworn foe to truth,
Whose perfidy deserves th' eternal chain!
And now she's down, our British bucks forsooth
Would lift the stabbing strumpet up again.
Whose perfidy deserves th' eternal chain!
And now she's down, our British bucks forsooth
Would lift the stabbing strumpet up again.
Love I the French?—By heav'ns 'tis no such matter!
Who loves a Frenchman, wars with simple nature.
What Frenchman loves a Briton?—None:
Yet by the hand this enemy we take;
Yes, blund'ring Britons bosom up the snake,
And feel themselves, too late indeed, undone.
Who loves a Frenchman, wars with simple nature.
What Frenchman loves a Briton?—None:
Yet by the hand this enemy we take;
Yes, blund'ring Britons bosom up the snake,
And feel themselves, too late indeed, undone.
The converse chaste of day, and eke of night,
The kiss-clad moments of supreme delight,
To Love's pure passion only due;
The seraph smile that soft-ey'd Friendship wears,
And Sorrow's balm of sympathizing tears,
Those iron fellows never knew.
The kiss-clad moments of supreme delight,
To Love's pure passion only due;
The seraph smile that soft-ey'd Friendship wears,
And Sorrow's balm of sympathizing tears,
Those iron fellows never knew.
For this I hate them.—Art, all vanish'd art!
This doth experience ev'ry moment prove:
And hollow must to all things be the heart,
That foe to beauty, which deceives in love.
This doth experience ev'ry moment prove:
And hollow must to all things be the heart,
That foe to beauty, which deceives in love.
Hear me, Dame Nature, on those men of cork—
Blush at a Frenchman's heart, thy handy work;
A dunghill that luxuriant feeds
The gaudy and the rankest weeds!
Deception, grub-like, taints its very core,
Like flies in carrion—pr'ythee, make no more.
Blush at a Frenchman's heart, thy handy work;
A dunghill that luxuriant feeds
The gaudy and the rankest weeds!
Deception, grub-like, taints its very core,
Like flies in carrion—pr'ythee, make no more.
Not but a neighb'ring nation to the French
Have morals that emit a stronger stench,
That Christian noses scarcely can withstand:
The heart a dungeon, hollow, dark, and foul,
The dwelling of the toad, snake, bat, and owl,
Demons, and all the grimly spectre band.
Have morals that emit a stronger stench,
228
The heart a dungeon, hollow, dark, and foul,
The dwelling of the toad, snake, bat, and owl,
Demons, and all the grimly spectre band.
Mad fools!—And can we deem the French profound,
And, pleas'd, their infant politics embrace,
Who drag a noble pyramid to ground,
Without one pebble to supply its place?
And, pleas'd, their infant politics embrace,
Who drag a noble pyramid to ground,
Without one pebble to supply its place?
Yet are they follow'd, prais'd, admir'd, ador'd.
Be with such praise, these ears no longer bor'd!
This moment could I prove it to the nation all,
That verily a Frenchman is not rational.
Be with such praise, these ears no longer bor'd!
This moment could I prove it to the nation all,
That verily a Frenchman is not rational.
Yes, Frenchmen, this is my unvarying creed,
‘You are not rational indeed;
So low have fond conceit and folly sunk ye:
Only a larger kind of monkey!’
‘You are not rational indeed;
So low have fond conceit and folly sunk ye:
Only a larger kind of monkey!’
‘What art thou writing now?’ the world exclaims,
‘Thou man of brass!’
Good world, no names, no names—I beg, no names—
Writing?—an Ode to my old fav'rite Ass.
‘Thou man of brass!’
Good world, no names, no names—I beg, no names—
Writing?—an Ode to my old fav'rite Ass.
Not making royal varnish—no!
My ass's virtues bid my numbers flow:
Peter his name, my namesake, a good beast;
A servant to my family some years.—
To me is gratitude a turtle feast;
It is a virtue that my soul reveres;
And therefore I've been fabricating metre
All in the praise of honest Peter.
My ass's virtues bid my numbers flow:
Peter his name, my namesake, a good beast;
A servant to my family some years.—
To me is gratitude a turtle feast;
It is a virtue that my soul reveres;
And therefore I've been fabricating metre
All in the praise of honest Peter.
229
ODE TO MY ASS, PETER.
O thou, my solemn friend, of man despis'd,
But not by me despis'd—respected long!
To prove how much thy qualities are priz'd,
Accept, old fellow-traveller, a song.
But not by me despis'd—respected long!
To prove how much thy qualities are priz'd,
Accept, old fellow-traveller, a song.
My great great ancestor, of lyric fame,
Immortal! threw a glory round the horse;
Then, as I lit my candle at his flame,
That candle shall illumine thee of course.
Immortal! threw a glory round the horse;
Then, as I lit my candle at his flame,
That candle shall illumine thee of course.
For why not thou, in works and virtues rich,
In Fame's fair temple also boast a niche?
How many a genius, 'midst a vulgar pack,
Oblivion stuffs into her sooty sack,
Calmly as Jew old-clothes men, in their bags,
Mix some great man's lac'd coat with dirty rags;
Or satin petticoat of some sweet maid,
That o'er her beauties cast an envious shade!
And what's the reason?—Reason too apparent!
Ah! ‘quia vate sacro carent,’
As Horace says, that bard divine,
Whose wits so fortunately jump with mine.
In Fame's fair temple also boast a niche?
How many a genius, 'midst a vulgar pack,
Oblivion stuffs into her sooty sack,
Calmly as Jew old-clothes men, in their bags,
Mix some great man's lac'd coat with dirty rags;
Or satin petticoat of some sweet maid,
That o'er her beauties cast an envious shade!
And what's the reason?—Reason too apparent!
Ah! ‘quia vate sacro carent,’
As Horace says, that bard divine,
Whose wits so fortunately jump with mine.
Ah, Peter, I remember, oft, when tir'd
And most unpleasantly at times bemir'd,
Bold hast thou said, ‘I'll budge not one inch further;
‘And now, young master, you may kick or murther.’
Then have I cudgell'd thee—a fruitless matter!
For 'twas in vain to kick, or flog, or chatter.
Though, Balaam-like, I curs'd thee with a smack;
Sturdy thou dropp'dst thine ears upon thy back,
And trotting retrograde, with wriggling tail,
In vain did I thy running rump assail:
For lo, between thy legs thou putt'dst thine head,
And gavest me a puddle for a bed.
Now this was fair—the action bore no guile:
Thou duck'dst me not, like Judas, with a smile.
O were the manners of some monarchs such,
Who smile ev'n in the close insidious hour
That kicks th' unguarded minion from his pow'r!
But this is asking p'rhaps of kings too much.
And most unpleasantly at times bemir'd,
Bold hast thou said, ‘I'll budge not one inch further;
‘And now, young master, you may kick or murther.’
Then have I cudgell'd thee—a fruitless matter!
For 'twas in vain to kick, or flog, or chatter.
Though, Balaam-like, I curs'd thee with a smack;
Sturdy thou dropp'dst thine ears upon thy back,
And trotting retrograde, with wriggling tail,
In vain did I thy running rump assail:
230
And gavest me a puddle for a bed.
Now this was fair—the action bore no guile:
Thou duck'dst me not, like Judas, with a smile.
O were the manners of some monarchs such,
Who smile ev'n in the close insidious hour
That kicks th' unguarded minion from his pow'r!
But this is asking p'rhaps of kings too much.
O Peter, little didst thou think, I ween,
When I a school-boy on thy back was seen,
Riding thee oft, in attitude uncouth;
For bridle, an old garter in thy mouth;
Jogging and whistling wild o'er hill and dale,
On sloes, or nuts, or strawb'ries to regale—
When I a school-boy on thy back was seen,
Riding thee oft, in attitude uncouth;
For bridle, an old garter in thy mouth;
Jogging and whistling wild o'er hill and dale,
On sloes, or nuts, or strawb'ries to regale—
I say, O Peter, little didst thou think,
That I, thy namesake, in immortal ink
Should dip my pen, and rise a wondrous bard,
And gain such praise, sublimity's reward;
That I, thy namesake, in immortal ink
Should dip my pen, and rise a wondrous bard,
And gain such praise, sublimity's reward;
But not the laurel—honour much too high;
Giv'n by the king of isles to Mister Pye,
Who sings his sov'reign's virtues twice a year,
And therefore cannot chronicle small beer.
Giv'n by the king of isles to Mister Pye,
Who sings his sov'reign's virtues twice a year,
And therefore cannot chronicle small beer.
Yet simple as Montaigne, I'll tell thee true;
There are, who on my verses look askew,
And call my lyric lucubrations stuff:
But I'm a modest, not unconnyinge elf,
Or I could say such things about myself—
But God forbid that I should puff!
There are, who on my verses look askew,
And call my lyric lucubrations stuff:
But I'm a modest, not unconnyinge elf,
Or I could say such things about myself—
But God forbid that I should puff!
Yet natural are selfish predilections!
Like snakes they writhe about the heart's affections,
And sometimes too infuse a poisonous spirit;
Producing, as by nat'ralists I'm told,
Torpid insensibility, so cold
To ev'ry brother's rising merit.
Like snakes they writhe about the heart's affections,
And sometimes too infuse a poisonous spirit;
Producing, as by nat'ralists I'm told,
Torpid insensibility, so cold
To ev'ry brother's rising merit.
Wits to each other just like loadstones act,
That do not always like firm friends attract;
Though of the same rare nature, (strange to tell!)
The little harden'd rogues as oft repel.
But lo, of thee I'll speak, my long-ear'd friend!
Great were the wonders of thy heels of yore;
Victorious, for lac'd hats didst thou contend;
And ribbons grac'd thy ears—a gaudy store.
That do not always like firm friends attract;
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The little harden'd rogues as oft repel.
But lo, of thee I'll speak, my long-ear'd friend!
Great were the wonders of thy heels of yore;
Victorious, for lac'd hats didst thou contend;
And ribbons grac'd thy ears—a gaudy store.
Buff breeches too have crown'd a proud proud day,
Not thou, but which thy rider wore away;
Triumphant strutting through the world he strode,
Great soul! deserving an Olympic ode.
Not thou, but which thy rider wore away;
Triumphant strutting through the world he strode,
Great soul! deserving an Olympic ode.
Thy bravery often did I much approve;
Rais'd by that queen of passions, Love.
Whene'er in Love's delicious phrensy crost
By long-ear'd brothers, lo wert thou a host!
Love did thy lion-heart with courage steel!
Quicker than that of Vestris mov'd thy heel:
Here, there, up, down, in, out, how thou didst smite!
And then no alderman could match thy bite!
Rais'd by that queen of passions, Love.
Whene'er in Love's delicious phrensy crost
By long-ear'd brothers, lo wert thou a host!
Love did thy lion-heart with courage steel!
Quicker than that of Vestris mov'd thy heel:
Here, there, up, down, in, out, how thou didst smite!
And then no alderman could match thy bite!
And is thy race no more rever'd?
Indeed 'tis greatly to be fear'd!
Indeed 'tis greatly to be fear'd!
Yet shalt thou flourish in immortal song,
To me if immortality belong;
For stranger things than this have come to pass—
Posterity thine hist'ry shall devour,
And read with pleasure how, when vernal show'r
In gay profusion rais'd the dewy grass,
I led thee forth, thine appetite to please,
And mid the verdure saw thee up to knees!
To me if immortality belong;
For stranger things than this have come to pass—
Posterity thine hist'ry shall devour,
And read with pleasure how, when vernal show'r
In gay profusion rais'd the dewy grass,
I led thee forth, thine appetite to please,
And mid the verdure saw thee up to knees!
How, oft I pluck'd the tender blade!
And, happy, how thou cam'st at my command,
And wantoning around, as though afraid,
With poking neck didst pull it from my hand,
Then scamper, kicking, frolicksome, away,
With such a fascinating bray!
And, happy, how thou cam'st at my command,
And wantoning around, as though afraid,
With poking neck didst pull it from my hand,
Then scamper, kicking, frolicksome, away,
With such a fascinating bray!
Where oft I paid thee visits, and where thou
Didst cock with happiness thy kingly ears,
And grin so 'witchingly, I can't tell how,
And dart at me such friendly leers;
Didst cock with happiness thy kingly ears,
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And dart at me such friendly leers;
With such a smiling head, and laughing tail:
And when I mov'd, how griev'd, thou seem'dst to say,
Dear master, let your humble ass prevail;
‘Pray, master do not go away’—
And how (for what than friendship can be sweeter?)
I gave thee grass again, O pleasant Peter.
And when I mov'd, how griev'd, thou seem'dst to say,
Dear master, let your humble ass prevail;
‘Pray, master do not go away’—
And how (for what than friendship can be sweeter?)
I gave thee grass again, O pleasant Peter.
And how, when winter bade the herbage die,
And Nature mourn'd beneath the stormy sky;
When waving trees, surcharg'd with chilling rain,
Dropp'd seeming tears upon the harass'd plain,
I gave thee a good stable, warm as wool,
With oats to grind, and hay to pull:
Thus, whilst abroad December rul'd the day,
How plenty show'd within, the blooming May!
And Nature mourn'd beneath the stormy sky;
When waving trees, surcharg'd with chilling rain,
Dropp'd seeming tears upon the harass'd plain,
I gave thee a good stable, warm as wool,
With oats to grind, and hay to pull:
Thus, whilst abroad December rul'd the day,
How plenty show'd within, the blooming May!
And lo, to future times it shall be known,
How, twice a day, to comb and rub thee down,
And be thy bed-maker at night,
Thy groom attended, both with hay and oat,
By which thy back could boast a handsome coat,
And laugh at many a fine court lord and knight,
Whose strutting coats belong p'rhaps to the tailor,
And probably their bodies to the jailor!
How, twice a day, to comb and rub thee down,
And be thy bed-maker at night,
Thy groom attended, both with hay and oat,
By which thy back could boast a handsome coat,
And laugh at many a fine court lord and knight,
Whose strutting coats belong p'rhaps to the tailor,
And probably their bodies to the jailor!
What though no dimples thou hast got;
Black sparkling eyes (the fashion) are thy lot,
And oft a witching smile and cheerful laugh;
And then thy cleanliness!—'tis strange to utter!
Like sin, thy heels avoid a pool, or gutter;
And then the stream so daintily dost quaff!
Unlike a country alderman, who blows,
And in the mug baptizeth mouth and nose!
Black sparkling eyes (the fashion) are thy lot,
And oft a witching smile and cheerful laugh;
And then thy cleanliness!—'tis strange to utter!
Like sin, thy heels avoid a pool, or gutter;
And then the stream so daintily dost quaff!
Unlike a country alderman, who blows,
And in the mug baptizeth mouth and nose!
What though I've heard some voices sweeter;
Yet exquisite thy hearing, gentle Peter!
Whether a judge of music, I don't know—
If so,
Thou hast th' advantage got of many a score
That enter at the opera door.
Yet exquisite thy hearing, gentle Peter!
Whether a judge of music, I don't know—
If so,
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That enter at the opera door.
Some people think thy tones are rather coarse;
Ev'n love-sick tones, address'd to lady asses—
Octaves indeed of wondrous force;
And yet thy voice full many a voice surpasses.
Ev'n love-sick tones, address'd to lady asses—
Octaves indeed of wondrous force;
And yet thy voice full many a voice surpasses.
Lord Cardigan, if rightly I divine,
Would very gladly give his voice for thine:
Would very gladly give his voice for thine:
And Lady Mount
, her majesty's fine foil,
For whom perfumers, barbers, vainly toil,
Poor lady! who has quarrell'd with the graces,
Would very willingly change faces.
For whom perfumers, barbers, vainly toil,
Poor lady! who has quarrell'd with the graces,
Would very willingly change faces.
How honour'd once wert thou! but ah, no more!
Thus too despis'd the bards—esteem'd of yore!
How rated once, the tuneful tribes of Greece!
Deem'd much like di'monds—thousands worth a piece!
Thus too despis'd the bards—esteem'd of yore!
How rated once, the tuneful tribes of Greece!
Deem'd much like di'monds—thousands worth a piece!
How great was Pindar's glory!—On a day,
Entering Apollo's church, to pray,
The lady of the sacred fane, or mistress,
Or, in more classic term, the priestess,
Address'd him with ineffable delight—
‘Great sir, (quoth she) in pigs, and sheep, and calves,
Master insists upon't that you go halves:
To beef his godship also gives you right.’
Entering Apollo's church, to pray,
The lady of the sacred fane, or mistress,
Or, in more classic term, the priestess,
Address'd him with ineffable delight—
‘Great sir, (quoth she) in pigs, and sheep, and calves,
Master insists upon't that you go halves:
To beef his godship also gives you right.’
Thus did the twain most hearty dinners make;
Pindar and Phœbus eating steak and steak:
When too (Pausanius says), to please the god—
Between each mouthful, Pindar sung an ode!
Thus half a deity was this great poet!
Now this was grand in Phœbus—vastly civil—
How chang'd are things! the present moments show it;
For bard is now synonymous with Devil!
Pindar and Phœbus eating steak and steak:
When too (Pausanius says), to please the god—
Between each mouthful, Pindar sung an ode!
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Now this was grand in Phœbus—vastly civil—
How chang'd are things! the present moments show it;
For bard is now synonymous with Devil!
Just to three hundred years ago, I speak—
How simple scholarship was wont to rule!
A man like Doctor Parr, that mouth'd but Greek,
Was almost worshipp'd by the sage and fool;
Deem'd by the world indeed a first-rate star.
How diff'rent now the fate of Doctor Parr!
How simple scholarship was wont to rule!
A man like Doctor Parr, that mouth'd but Greek,
Was almost worshipp'd by the sage and fool;
Deem'd by the world indeed a first-rate star.
How diff'rent now the fate of Doctor Parr!
Unknown he walks!—his name no infants lisp—
Not only reckon'd not a first-rate star
Is this our Greek man, Doctor Parr,
But, Gods! not equal to a Will-o'-wisp!
Not only reckon'd not a first-rate star
Is this our Greek man, Doctor Parr,
But, Gods! not equal to a Will-o'-wisp!
Plague on't! how niggardly the trump of Fame,
That wakes not Bellendenus on the shelf!
The world so still, too, on the doctor's name,
The man is really forc'd to praise himself!
That wakes not Bellendenus on the shelf!
The world so still, too, on the doctor's name,
The man is really forc'd to praise himself!
‘Archbishops, bishops,’ (so says Doctor Parr)
‘By alpha, beta, merely, have been made;
Why from the mitre then am I so far;
So long a dray-horse in this thundering trade’
O Pitt, shame on thee!—art thou still to seek
The soul of wisdom in the sound of Greek?’
‘By alpha, beta, merely, have been made;
Why from the mitre then am I so far;
So long a dray-horse in this thundering trade’
O Pitt, shame on thee!—art thou still to seek
The soul of wisdom in the sound of Greek?’
Peter, suppose we make a bit of style,
And rest ourselves a little while?
And rest ourselves a little while?
Her m---y is always happy to have Lady Mount E--- by her side, as being one of the ugliest women in England—in short, his lordship in petticoats.
The preface to Bellendenus was a coup d'essai of the doctor's for a bishopric—it was the child of his dotage. The pap of party supported it some little time; when, after several struggles to remain amongst us, it paid the last debt of nature.
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IN CONTINUATION.
THUS endeth Doctor Parr; and now again,
To thee, as good a subject, flows the strain.
Permit me, Peter, in my lyric canter,
Just to speak Latin—‘tempora mutantur!’
To thee, as good a subject, flows the strain.
Permit me, Peter, in my lyric canter,
Just to speak Latin—‘tempora mutantur!’
Kings did not scorn to press your backs of yore;
But now, with humbled neck and patient face,
Tied to a thievish miller's dusty door,
I mark thy fall'n and disregarded race.
But now, with humbled neck and patient face,
Tied to a thievish miller's dusty door,
I mark thy fall'n and disregarded race.
To chimney-sweepers now a common hack;
Now with a brace of sand-bags on your back!
No gorgeous saddles yours—no iv'ry cribs;
No silken girts surround your ribs;
No royal hands your cheeks with pleasure pat;
Cheeks by a roguish halter prest—
Your ears and rump, of insolence the jest;
Dragg'd, kick'd, and pummell'd, by a beggar's brat.
Now with a brace of sand-bags on your back!
No gorgeous saddles yours—no iv'ry cribs;
No silken girts surround your ribs;
No royal hands your cheeks with pleasure pat;
Cheeks by a roguish halter prest—
Your ears and rump, of insolence the jest;
Dragg'd, kick'd, and pummell'd, by a beggar's brat.
Thus, as I've said, your race is much degraded!
And much too is the poet's glory faded!
And much too is the poet's glory faded!
A time there was, when kings of this fair land,
So meek, would creep to poets, cap in hand,
Begging, as 'twere for alms, a grain of fame,
To sweeten a poor putrifying name—
But past are those rich hours! ah, hours of yore!
Those golden sands of Time shall glide no more.
So meek, would creep to poets, cap in hand,
Begging, as 'twere for alms, a grain of fame,
To sweeten a poor putrifying name—
But past are those rich hours! ah, hours of yore!
Those golden sands of Time shall glide no more.
Yet are we not in thy discarded state,
Whate'er may be the future will of Fate;
Since, as we find by Pye (what still must pride us),
Kings twice a year can condescend to ride us.
Whate'er may be the future will of Fate;
Since, as we find by Pye (what still must pride us),
Kings twice a year can condescend to ride us.
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AN AFTER-REFLECTION.
NOW, world, thou seest the stuff of which I'm made:
Firm to the honour of the tuneful trade;
Leaving, with high contempt, the courtier class,
To sing the merits of the humble ass.
Firm to the honour of the tuneful trade;
Leaving, with high contempt, the courtier class,
To sing the merits of the humble ass.
Yet should a miracle the palace mend,
And high-nos'd Sal'sb'ry to the Virtues send,
Commanding them to come and chat with kings;
Well pleas'd repentant sinners to support,
So help me, Impudence, I'll go to court!
Besides, I dearly love to see strange things.
And high-nos'd Sal'sb'ry to the Virtues send,
Commanding them to come and chat with kings;
Well pleas'd repentant sinners to support,
So help me, Impudence, I'll go to court!
Besides, I dearly love to see strange things.
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PROËMIUM TO THE MAGPIE AND ROBIN RED-BREAST.
How varied are our tastes; Dame Nature's plan,
All for wise reasons, since the world began:
Yes, yes, the good old lady acted right:
Had things been otherwise, like wolves and bears,
We all had fall'n together by the ears—
One object had produc'd an endless fight.
All for wise reasons, since the world began:
Yes, yes, the good old lady acted right:
Had things been otherwise, like wolves and bears,
We all had fall'n together by the ears—
One object had produc'd an endless fight.
Nettles had strew'd life's path instead of roses;
And multitudes of mortal faces,
Printed with histories of bloody noses,
Had taken leave of absence of the Graces.
And multitudes of mortal faces,
Printed with histories of bloody noses,
Had taken leave of absence of the Graces.
Now interrupting not each other's line,
Your ride your hobby-horse, and I ride mine—
You press the blue-ey'd Chloe to your arms,
And I the black-ey'd Sappho's browner charms:
Thus situated in our diff'rent blisses,
We squint not envious on each other's kisses.
Your ride your hobby-horse, and I ride mine—
You press the blue-ey'd Chloe to your arms,
And I the black-ey'd Sappho's browner charms:
Thus situated in our diff'rent blisses,
We squint not envious on each other's kisses.
Yet are there some exceptions to this rule:
We meet with now and then a stubborn fool,
Dragooning us into his predilections;
As though there was no diff'rence in affections,
And that it was the booby's firm belief,
Pork cannot please, because he doats on beef!
Again—how weak the ways of some, and sad!
One would suppose the man-creation mad.
We meet with now and then a stubborn fool,
Dragooning us into his predilections;
As though there was no diff'rence in affections,
And that it was the booby's firm belief,
Pork cannot please, because he doats on beef!
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One would suppose the man-creation mad.
Lo! this poor fellow, folly-drunk, he rambles,
And flings himself into Misfortune's brambles,
In full pursuit of Happiness's treasure;
When, with a little glance of circumspection,
A mustard grain of sense—a child's reflection—
The fool had cours'd the velvet lawn of pleasure.
And flings himself into Misfortune's brambles,
In full pursuit of Happiness's treasure;
When, with a little glance of circumspection,
A mustard grain of sense—a child's reflection—
The fool had cours'd the velvet lawn of pleasure.
Idly he braves the surge, and roaring gale;
When Reason, if consulted with a smile,
Had tow'd through summer seas his silken sail,
And sav'd a dangerous and Herculean toil.
When Reason, if consulted with a smile,
Had tow'd through summer seas his silken sail,
And sav'd a dangerous and Herculean toil.
Yes, as I've somewhere said above, I find,
That many a man has many a mind.
That many a man has many a mind.
How I hate Drunkenness, a nasty pig!
With snuff-stain'd neckcloth, without hat or wig,
Reeling and belching wisdom in one's face!
How I hate Bully Uproar from my soul,
Whom nought but whips and prisons can control,
Those necessary implements of grace!
With snuff-stain'd neckcloth, without hat or wig,
Reeling and belching wisdom in one's face!
How I hate Bully Uproar from my soul,
Whom nought but whips and prisons can control,
Those necessary implements of grace!
Yet altars rise to Drunkenness and Riot—
How few to mild Sobriety and Quiet!
How few to mild Sobriety and Quiet!
Thou art my goddess, Solitude—to thee,
Parent of dove-ey'd Peace, I bend the knee!
O with what joy I roam thy calm retreat,
Whence soars the lark amid the radiant hour,
Where many a varied, chaste, and fragrant flow'r
Turns coyly from rogue Zephyr's whisper sweet!
Blest imp! who wantons o'er thy wide domain,
And kisses all the beauties of the plain:
Parent of dove-ey'd Peace, I bend the knee!
O with what joy I roam thy calm retreat,
Whence soars the lark amid the radiant hour,
Where many a varied, chaste, and fragrant flow'r
Turns coyly from rogue Zephyr's whisper sweet!
Blest imp! who wantons o'er thy wide domain,
And kisses all the beauties of the plain:
Where, happy, mid the all-enlivening ray,
The insect nations spend the busy day,
Wing the pure fields of air, and crawl the ground;
Where, idle none, the Jew-like myriads range,
Just like the Hebrews at high 'Change,
Diffusing hum of Babel-notes around!
The insect nations spend the busy day,
Wing the pure fields of air, and crawl the ground;
Where, idle none, the Jew-like myriads range,
Just like the Hebrews at high 'Change,
Diffusing hum of Babel-notes around!
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Where Health so wild and gay, with bosom bare,
And rosy cheek, keen eye, and flowing hair,
Trips with a smile the breezy scenes along,
And pours the spirit of content in song!
And rosy cheek, keen eye, and flowing hair,
Trips with a smile the breezy scenes along,
And pours the spirit of content in song!
Thus tastes are various, as I've said before—
These damn most cordially, what those adore.
These damn most cordially, what those adore.
240
THE MAGPIE AND ROBIN RED-BREAST.
A TALE.
A Magpie, in the spirit of romance,
Much like the fam'd reformers now of France,
Flew from the dwelling of an old Poissarde;
Where, sometimes in his cage, and sometimes out,
He justified the revolution rout,
That is, call'd names, and got a sop for his reward.
Much like the fam'd reformers now of France,
Flew from the dwelling of an old Poissarde;
Where, sometimes in his cage, and sometimes out,
He justified the revolution rout,
That is, call'd names, and got a sop for his reward.
Red-hot with monarch-roasting coals,
Just like his old fish-thund'ring dame,
He left the queen of crabs, and plaice, and soles,
To kindle in Old England's realm a flame.
Just like his old fish-thund'ring dame,
He left the queen of crabs, and plaice, and soles,
To kindle in Old England's realm a flame.
Arriv'd at evening's philosophic hour,
He rested on a rural antique tow'r,
Some baron's castle in the days of old;
When furious wars, misnomer'd civil,
Sent mighty chiefs to see the devil,
Leaving behind their bodies for rich mould,
That pliable from form to form patroles,
Making fresh houses for new souls.
He rested on a rural antique tow'r,
Some baron's castle in the days of old;
When furious wars, misnomer'd civil,
Sent mighty chiefs to see the devil,
Leaving behind their bodies for rich mould,
That pliable from form to form patroles,
Making fresh houses for new souls.
Perch'd on the wall, he cocks his tail and eye,
And hops like modern beaux in country dances;
Looks dev'lish knowing, with his head awry,
Squinting with connoisseurship glances.
And hops like modern beaux in country dances;
Looks dev'lish knowing, with his head awry,
Squinting with connoisseurship glances.
All on a sudden, Maggot starts and stares,
And wonders, and for somewhat strange prepares;
But lo, his wonder did not hold him long—
Soft from a bush below, divinely clear,
A modest warble melted on his ear,
A plaintive, soothing, solitary song—
And wonders, and for somewhat strange prepares;
But lo, his wonder did not hold him long—
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A modest warble melted on his ear,
A plaintive, soothing, solitary song—
A stealing, timid, unpresuming sound,
Afraid dim Nature's deep repose to wound;
That hush'd (a death-like pause) the rude sublime.
This was a novelty to Mag indeed,
Who, pulling up his spindle-shanks with speed,
Dropp'd from his turret, half-devour'd by time,
A la Françoise, upon the spray
Where a lone Red-breast pour'd to eve, his lay.
Afraid dim Nature's deep repose to wound;
That hush'd (a death-like pause) the rude sublime.
This was a novelty to Mag indeed,
Who, pulling up his spindle-shanks with speed,
Dropp'd from his turret, half-devour'd by time,
A la Françoise, upon the spray
Where a lone Red-breast pour'd to eve, his lay.
Staring the modest minstrel in the face,
Familiar, and with arch grimace,
He conn'd the dusky warbler o'er and o'er,
As though he knew him years before;
And thus began, with seeming great civility,
All in the Paris ease of volubility—
Familiar, and with arch grimace,
He conn'd the dusky warbler o'er and o'er,
As though he knew him years before;
And thus began, with seeming great civility,
All in the Paris ease of volubility—
‘What—Bobby! dam'me, is it you,
That thus your pretty phiz to music screw,
So far from hamlet, village, town, and city,
To glad old battlements with dull psalm ditty?
That thus your pretty phiz to music screw,
So far from hamlet, village, town, and city,
To glad old battlements with dull psalm ditty?
‘'Sdeath! what a pleasant, lively, merry scene!
Plenty of bats, and owls, and ghosts I ween;
Rare midnight screeches, Bob, between you all!
Why, what's the name on't, Bobby? Dismal Hall?
Plenty of bats, and owls, and ghosts I ween;
Rare midnight screeches, Bob, between you all!
Why, what's the name on't, Bobby? Dismal Hall?
‘Come, to be serious—curse this queer old spot,
And let thy owlish habitation rot!
Join me, and soon in riot will we revel:
I'll teach thee how to curse, and call folks names,
And be expert in treason, murder, flames,
And most divinely play the devil.
And let thy owlish habitation rot!
Join me, and soon in riot will we revel:
I'll teach thee how to curse, and call folks names,
And be expert in treason, murder, flames,
And most divinely play the devil.
‘Yes, thou shalt leave this spectred hole,
And prove thou hast a bit of soul:
Soon shalt thou see old stupid London dance;
There will we shine immortal knaves;
Not steal unknown, like cuckoos, to our graves,
But imitate the geniuses of France.
And prove thou hast a bit of soul:
Soon shalt thou see old stupid London dance;
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Not steal unknown, like cuckoos, to our graves,
But imitate the geniuses of France.
‘Who'd be that monkish, cloister'd thing, a muscle?
Importance only can arise from bustle!
Tornado, thunder, lightning, tumult, strife;
These charm, and add a dignity to life.
That thou shouldst choose this spot, is monstrous odd.
Poh, poh! thou canst not like this life, by G---!’
Importance only can arise from bustle!
Tornado, thunder, lightning, tumult, strife;
These charm, and add a dignity to life.
That thou shouldst choose this spot, is monstrous odd.
Poh, poh! thou canst not like this life, by G---!’
‘Sir!’ like one thunder-stricken, staring wide—
‘Can you be serious, sir?’ the robin cried.
‘Serious!’ rejoin'd the magpie, ‘aye, my boy—
So come, let's play the devil, and enjoy.’
‘Can you be serious, sir?’ the robin cried.
‘Serious!’ rejoin'd the magpie, ‘aye, my boy—
So come, let's play the devil, and enjoy.’
‘Flames!’ quoth the robin—‘and in riot revel,
Call names, and curse, divinely play the devil!
I cannot, for my life, the fun discern.’
‘No!—blush then, Bob, and follow me, and learn.’
Call names, and curse, divinely play the devil!
I cannot, for my life, the fun discern.’
‘No!—blush then, Bob, and follow me, and learn.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the modest hermit cried—
‘Hell's not the hobby-horse I wish to ride.’
‘Hell!’ laugh'd the magpie, ‘hell no longer dread;
Why, Bob, in France the devil's lately dead:
‘Hell's not the hobby-horse I wish to ride.’
‘Hell!’ laugh'd the magpie, ‘hell no longer dread;
Why, Bob, in France the devil's lately dead:
‘Damnation vulgar to a Frenchman's hearing—
The word is only kept alive for swearing.
Against futurity they all protest;
And God and Heav'n are grown a standing jest.
The word is only kept alive for swearing.
Against futurity they all protest;
And God and Heav'n are grown a standing jest.
‘Brimstone and sin are downright out of fashion;
France is quite alter'd—now a thinking nation:
No more of penitential tears and groans!
Philosophy has crack'd Religion's bones.
France is quite alter'd—now a thinking nation:
No more of penitential tears and groans!
Philosophy has crack'd Religion's bones.
‘As for your Saviour of a wicked world,
Long from his consequence has he been hurl'd:
They do acknowledge such a man, d'ye see;
But then they call him simple Monsieur Christ.
Bob, for thy ignorance, pray blush for shame—
Behold, thy Doctor Priestly says the same.
Long from his consequence has he been hurl'd:
They do acknowledge such a man, d'ye see;
But then they call him simple Monsieur Christ.
Bob, for thy ignorance, pray blush for shame—
Behold, thy Doctor Priestly says the same.
243
‘Well! now thou fully art convinc'd—let's go.’
‘What cursed doctrine!’ quoth the robin, ‘No—
I won't go—no! thy speeches make me shudder.’
‘Poor robin!’ quoth the magpie, ‘what a pudder!
Be damn'd then, Bobby,’—flying off, he rav'd—
‘And,’ quoth the robin, ‘sir, may you be sav'd!’
This said, the tuneful sprite renew'd his lay;
A sweet and farewell hymn to parting day.
In Thomas Paine the magpie doth appear:
‘What cursed doctrine!’ quoth the robin, ‘No—
I won't go—no! thy speeches make me shudder.’
‘Poor robin!’ quoth the magpie, ‘what a pudder!
Be damn'd then, Bobby,’—flying off, he rav'd—
‘And,’ quoth the robin, ‘sir, may you be sav'd!’
This said, the tuneful sprite renew'd his lay;
A sweet and farewell hymn to parting day.
That I'm Poor Robin, is not quite so clear.
POSTSCRIPT.
TO THE CANDID READER.
I really think that this tale of the Magpie and Robin ought immediately to have followed the Remonstrance: but as disorder, instead of order, is the leading feature of my sublime lyric brethren of old, I shall take the liberty of sheltering myself under the wing of their sacred names. The fable was written in consequence of a strenuous application of a red-hot revolutionist to a poet in the country, pressing him to become a member of the order of confusion.
244
AN APOLOGY FOR KINGS.
As want of candour really is not right,
I own my satire too inclin'd to bite:
On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup—
Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.
I own my satire too inclin'd to bite:
On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup—
Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.
Why will the simple world expect wise things
From lofty folk, particularly kings?
Look on their poverty of education!
Ador'd and flatter'd, taught that they are gods;
And by their awful frowns and nods,
Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!
From lofty folk, particularly kings?
Look on their poverty of education!
Ador'd and flatter'd, taught that they are gods;
And by their awful frowns and nods,
Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!
They scorn that little useful imp call'd mind,
Who fits them for the circle of mankind!
Pride their companion, and the world their hate;
Immur'd, they doze in ignorance and state.
Who fits them for the circle of mankind!
Pride their companion, and the world their hate;
Immur'd, they doze in ignorance and state.
Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend
A little with their subjects to unbend!
An instance take:—A king of this great land
In days of yore, we understand,
Did visit Sal'sbury's old church so fair:
An Earl of Pembroke was the monarch's guide;
Incog. they travell'd, shuffling side by side;
And into the Cathedral stole the pair.
A little with their subjects to unbend!
An instance take:—A king of this great land
In days of yore, we understand,
Did visit Sal'sbury's old church so fair:
An Earl of Pembroke was the monarch's guide;
Incog. they travell'd, shuffling side by side;
And into the Cathedral stole the pair.
The verger met them in his blue silk gown,
And humbly bow'd his neck with rev'rence down,
Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay:
Looking the frighten'd verger through and through,
All with his eye-glass—‘Well, sir, who are you?
What, what, sir:—hey, sir?’ deign'd the king to say.
And humbly bow'd his neck with rev'rence down,
245
Looking the frighten'd verger through and through,
All with his eye-glass—‘Well, sir, who are you?
What, what, sir:—hey, sir?’ deign'd the king to say.
‘I am the verger here, most mighty king
:
In this cathedral I do ev'ry thing;
Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean.’
‘Hey? verger! verger! you the verger? hey?’
‘Yes, please your glorious majesty, I be,’
The verger answer'd, with the mildest mien.
In this cathedral I do ev'ry thing;
Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean.’
‘Hey? verger! verger! you the verger? hey?’
‘Yes, please your glorious majesty, I be,’
The verger answer'd, with the mildest mien.
Then turn'd the king about towards the peer,
And wink'd, and laugh'd; then whisper'd in his ear,
‘Hey, hey—what, what—fine fellow, 'pon my word:
I'll knight him, knight him, knight him—hey, my lord?’
Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain,
He kenn'd the trembling verger o'er again.
And wink'd, and laugh'd; then whisper'd in his ear,
‘Hey, hey—what, what—fine fellow, 'pon my word:
I'll knight him, knight him, knight him—hey, my lord?’
Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain,
He kenn'd the trembling verger o'er again.
‘He's a poor verger, sire,’ his lordship cry'd:
‘Sixpence would handsomely requite him.’
‘Poor verger, verger, hey?’ the king reply'd:
‘No, no, then, we won't knight him—no, won't knight him.’
‘Sixpence would handsomely requite him.’
‘Poor verger, verger, hey?’ the king reply'd:
‘No, no, then, we won't knight him—no, won't knight him.’
Now to the lofty roof the king did raise
His glass, and skipp'd it o'er with sounds of praise;
For thus his marv'ling majesty did speak:
‘Fine roof this, master verger, quite complete;
High—high and lofty too, and clean and neat:
What, verger, what? mop, mop it once a week!’
His glass, and skipp'd it o'er with sounds of praise;
For thus his marv'ling majesty did speak:
‘Fine roof this, master verger, quite complete;
High—high and lofty too, and clean and neat:
What, verger, what? mop, mop it once a week!’
‘An't please your majesty,’ with marv'ling chops;
The verger answer'd, ‘we have got no mops
In Sal'sb'ry that will reach so high.’
‘Not mop, no, no, not mop it,’ quoth the king—
‘No, sir, our Sal'sb'ry mops do no such thing;
They might as well pretend to scrub the sky.’
The verger answer'd, ‘we have got no mops
In Sal'sb'ry that will reach so high.’
‘Not mop, no, no, not mop it,’ quoth the king—
‘No, sir, our Sal'sb'ry mops do no such thing;
They might as well pretend to scrub the sky.’
246
MORAL.
This little anecdote doth plainly showThat ignorance, a king too often lurches;
For, hid from art, Lord! how should monarchs know
The nat'ral history of mops and churches?
The reader will be pleased to observe, that the verger, of all the sons of the church, was the only one entrusted with the royal intention!!!
STORY THE SECOND.
From Sal'sb'ry church to Wilton House so grand,
Return'd the mighty ruler of the land—
‘My lord, you've got fine statues,’ said the king.
‘A few! beneath your royal notice, sir,’
Replied Lord Pembroke—‘Stir, my lord, stir, stir;
Let's see them all, all, all, all, ev'ry thing.
Return'd the mighty ruler of the land—
‘My lord, you've got fine statues,’ said the king.
‘A few! beneath your royal notice, sir,’
Replied Lord Pembroke—‘Stir, my lord, stir, stir;
Let's see them all, all, all, all, ev'ry thing.
‘Who's this? who's this?—who's this fine fellow here?’
‘Sesostris,’ bowing low, replied the peer.
‘Sir Sostris, hey?—Sir Sostris?—'pon my word!
Knight or a baronet, my lord?
One of my making?—what, my lord, my making?’
This, with a vengeance, was mistaking!
‘Sesostris,’ bowing low, replied the peer.
‘Sir Sostris, hey?—Sir Sostris?—'pon my word!
Knight or a baronet, my lord?
One of my making?—what, my lord, my making?’
This, with a vengeance, was mistaking!
‘Se-sostris, sire,’ so soft, the peer reply'd—
‘A famous king of Egypt, sir, of old.’
‘Poh, poh!’ th' instructed monarch snappish cry'd,
‘I need not that—I need not that be told.’
‘A famous king of Egypt, sir, of old.’
‘Poh, poh!’ th' instructed monarch snappish cry'd,
‘I need not that—I need not that be told.’
‘Pray, pray, my lord, who's that big fellow there?’
‘'Tis Hercules,’ replies the shrinking peer.
‘Strong fellow, hey, my lord? strong fellow, hey?
Clean'd stables!—crack'd a lion like a flea;
Kill'd snakes, great snakes, that in a cradle found him—
The queen, queen's coming! wrap an apron round him.’
‘'Tis Hercules,’ replies the shrinking peer.
247
Clean'd stables!—crack'd a lion like a flea;
Kill'd snakes, great snakes, that in a cradle found him—
The queen, queen's coming! wrap an apron round him.’
Our moral is not merely water-gruel—
It shows that curiosity's a jewel!
It shows with kings that ignorance may dwell:
It shows that subjects must not give opinions
To people reigning over wide dominions,
As information to great folk, is hell:
It shows that curiosity's a jewel!
It shows with kings that ignorance may dwell:
It shows that subjects must not give opinions
To people reigning over wide dominions,
As information to great folk, is hell:
It shows that decency may live with kings,
On whom the bold virtú-men turn their backs;
And shows (for num'rous are the naked things)
That saucy statues should be lodg'd in sacks.
On whom the bold virtú-men turn their backs;
And shows (for num'rous are the naked things)
That saucy statues should be lodg'd in sacks.
248
ADDRESS TO MY BOOK,
AN ELEGY.
Child of my love, go forth, and try thy fate:
Few are thy friends, and manifold thy foes!
Whether or long or short will be thy date,
Futurity's dark volume only knows.
Few are thy friends, and manifold thy foes!
Whether or long or short will be thy date,
Futurity's dark volume only knows.
Much criticism, alas! will be thy lot!
Severe thine ordeal, I am sore afraid!
Some judges will condemn, and others not:
Some call thy form substantial—others, shade.
Severe thine ordeal, I am sore afraid!
Some judges will condemn, and others not:
Some call thy form substantial—others, shade.
Yes, child, by multitudes wilt thou be tried!
Wise men, and fools, thy merits will examine:
Those, through much prudence, may thy virtues hide;
These, through vile rancour, or the dread of famine.
Wise men, and fools, thy merits will examine:
Those, through much prudence, may thy virtues hide;
These, through vile rancour, or the dread of famine.
Prov'd will it be indeed (to make thee shrink)
What metal Nature in thy mass did knead:
A melting process will be us'd, I think—
That is to say, large quantities of lead.
What metal Nature in thy mass did knead:
A melting process will be us'd, I think—
That is to say, large quantities of lead.
By some indeed will nitre's fuming spirit
Be o'er thy form so sweet, so tender, thrown;
Perchance a master hand may try thy merit;
Perchance an imp by folly only known.
Be o'er thy form so sweet, so tender, thrown;
Perchance a master hand may try thy merit;
Perchance an imp by folly only known.
Now, now I fancy thee a timid hare,
Started for beagles, hounds, and curs, to chase!
A mongrel dog may snap thee up unfair;
For spite and hunger have but little grace.
Started for beagles, hounds, and curs, to chase!
A mongrel dog may snap thee up unfair;
For spite and hunger have but little grace.
249
Long are thy legs (I know), and stout for running;
And many a trick hast thou within thy brain;
But guns and greyhounds are too much for cunning,
Join'd to the rav'nous pack of Thomas Paine!
And many a trick hast thou within thy brain;
But guns and greyhounds are too much for cunning,
Join'd to the rav'nous pack of Thomas Paine!
And now a lamb!—What devils now-a-days
The butch'ring shop of criticism employs!
Each beardless villain now cuts up, and flays!
A gang of wanton, brutal, 'prentice boys!
The butch'ring shop of criticism employs!
Each beardless villain now cuts up, and flays!
A gang of wanton, brutal, 'prentice boys!
Ah me! how hard to reach the dome of Fame!
Knock'd down before she gets half way, poor muse!
For many a lout that cannot gain a name,
(Rebus and riddle-maker) now reviews!
Knock'd down before she gets half way, poor muse!
For many a lout that cannot gain a name,
(Rebus and riddle-maker) now reviews!
Poor jealous eunuchs in the land of taste,
Too weak to reap a harvest of fair praise;
Malicious, lo, they lay the region waste;
Fire all they can, and triumph o'er the blaze!
Too weak to reap a harvest of fair praise;
Malicious, lo, they lay the region waste;
Fire all they can, and triumph o'er the blaze!
Too oft, with talents blest, the cruel few
Fix on poor Merit's throat, to stop her breath:
How like the beauteous fruit , that turns of dew
The life ambrosial, into drops of death!
Fix on poor Merit's throat, to stop her breath:
How like the beauteous fruit , that turns of dew
The life ambrosial, into drops of death!
Sweet babe, to Weymouth shouldst thou find thy way!
The king, with curiosity so wild,
May on a sudden send for thee, and say,
‘See, Charly, Peter's child—fine child, fine child:
The king, with curiosity so wild,
May on a sudden send for thee, and say,
‘See, Charly, Peter's child—fine child, fine child:
‘Ring, ring for Schwellenberg—ring, Charly, ring;
Show it to Schwellenberg; show, show it, show it—
She'll say, ‘Got dem de saucy stoopid ting,
I hate more worse as hell what come from poet.’
Show it to Schwellenberg; show, show it, show it—
She'll say, ‘Got dem de saucy stoopid ting,
I hate more worse as hell what come from poet.’
Yet will some courtiers all at once be glad!
Leeds, Hawksb'ry, Sal'sb'ry, Brud'nell, will rejoice;
Forget how oft thy brothers made them mad,
And echo through the realm the royal voice.
Leeds, Hawksb'ry, Sal'sb'ry, Brud'nell, will rejoice;
Forget how oft thy brothers made them mad,
And echo through the realm the royal voice.
250
And then for me his majesty may send
(Making some people grumble in their gizzards);
With Drake's new place, perchance, thy sire befriend;
First fly-catcher to good Queen Charlotte's lizards !
(Making some people grumble in their gizzards);
With Drake's new place, perchance, thy sire befriend;
First fly-catcher to good Queen Charlotte's lizards !
The story of the lizards is as follows:—At a board of green cloth lately, which assembled, as usual, with due decorum, to deliberate on the species of food proper to be given to the lions of Buckingham-house, the solemnity of the meeting was interrupted by the sudden gothic irruption, and self-introduction, of a servan of Sir Francis Drake, one of the honourable board; which servant, a true Devonshire dumplin, opening an ell-wide pair of jaws, exclaimed thus: ‘Zur Vrancis, I'm a zent to ax if yow've a cort enny more vlees —Have ye cort enny, Zur Vrancis?’ The baronet hemmed, winked, nodded, knitted his brows, stared, shrugged up his shoulders, blew his nose, bit his lips at poor numps: but all the face-making hints were thrown away.—‘Why, Zur Vrancis, I zay,’ continued numps, ‘Madam Zwellingburg wanth to know if yow've a nabb'd enny more vlees?’ The board stood amazed!—Sir Francis blushed for the first time. At length, recovering from his confusion, and bidding the fellow in an angry tone, go about his business, he very candidly informed the board, that her majesty had lately received a present of lizards; that she had ordered Mistress Schwellenberg to catch flies for them; but that, to oblige Mistress Schwellenberg, who kindly invited him to dine with her three or four times a week, he promised to assist her in her fly-hunt; in short, to be her deputy fly-catcher, and not first fly-catcher, as the elegy erroneously proclaimeth.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |