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] |  |
235
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |