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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| I. | ODE I. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
37
ODE I.
Peter puffeth away—Displayeth his Learning— Praiseth the Reviewers—Describeth himself most pathetically—Consoleth himself—Disliketh the Road to the Temple of Fame by Means of a Pistol, Poison, or a Rope—Addresseth great Folks—Giveth the King a broad Hint— Asketh a queer Question—Maketh as queer an Apostrophe to Genius.
Sons of the brush, I'm here again!
At times a Pindar, and Fontaine,
Casting poetic pearl (I fear) to swine!
For hang me if my last year's odes
Paid rent for lodgings near the gods,
Or put one sprat into this mouth divine.
At times a Pindar, and Fontaine,
Casting poetic pearl (I fear) to swine!
For hang me if my last year's odes
Paid rent for lodgings near the gods,
Or put one sprat into this mouth divine.
For odes, my cousin had rump-steaks to eat!
So says Pausanias—loads of dainty meat!
And this the towns of Greece, to give, thought fit:
The best historians, one and all, declare,
With the most solemn air,
The poet might have guttled till he split.
So says Pausanias—loads of dainty meat!
And this the towns of Greece, to give, thought fit:
The best historians, one and all, declare,
With the most solemn air,
The poet might have guttled till he split.
38
How different far, alas! my worship's fate!
To sooth the horrors of an empty plate,
The grave possessors of the critic throne,
Gave me, in truth, a pretty treat—
Of flattery, mind me, not of meat;
For they, poor souls, like me, are skin and bone.
To sooth the horrors of an empty plate,
The grave possessors of the critic throne,
Gave me, in truth, a pretty treat—
Of flattery, mind me, not of meat;
For they, poor souls, like me, are skin and bone.
No, no! with all my lyric pow'rs,
I'm not like Mrs. Cosway's Hours,
Red as cock-turkeys, plump as barn-door chicken:
Merit and I are miserably off:
We both have got a most consumptive cough;
Hunger hath long our harmless bones been picking.
I'm not like Mrs. Cosway's Hours,
Red as cock-turkeys, plump as barn-door chicken:
Merit and I are miserably off:
We both have got a most consumptive cough;
Hunger hath long our harmless bones been picking.
Merit and I, so innocent, so good,
Are like the little children in the wood—
And soon, like them, shall lay us down and die?
May some good Christian bard, in pity strong,
Turn redbreast kind, and with the sweetest song
Bewail our hapless fate with wat'ry eye!
Are like the little children in the wood—
And soon, like them, shall lay us down and die?
May some good Christian bard, in pity strong,
Turn redbreast kind, and with the sweetest song
Bewail our hapless fate with wat'ry eye!
Poor Chatterton was starv'd—with all his art!
Some consolation this to my lean heart—
Like him, in holes too, spider-like, I mope;
And there my rev'rence may remain, alas!
The world will not discover it, the ass!
Until I scrape acquaintance with a rope.
Some consolation this to my lean heart—
Like him, in holes too, spider-like, I mope;
And there my rev'rence may remain, alas!
The world will not discover it, the ass!
Until I scrape acquaintance with a rope.
Then up your Walpoles, Bryants, mount like bees;
Then each my pow'rs with adoration sees—
Nothing their kind civilities can hinder—
When, like an Otho, I am found;
Like Jacob's sons, they'll look one t'other round,
And cry, ‘Who would have thought this a young Pindar?’
Then each my pow'rs with adoration sees—
Nothing their kind civilities can hinder—
When, like an Otho, I am found;
Like Jacob's sons, they'll look one t'other round,
And cry, ‘Who would have thought this a young Pindar?’
39
Hanging's a dismal road to fame—
Pistols and poison just the same—
And what is worse, one can't come back again—
Soon as the beauteous gem we find,
We can't display it to mankind,
Tho' won with such wry mouths and wriggling pain.
Pistols and poison just the same—
And what is worse, one can't come back again—
Soon as the beauteous gem we find,
We can't display it to mankind,
Tho' won with such wry mouths and wriggling pain.
Ye lords and dukes so clever, say
(For you have much to give away,
And much your gentle patronage I lack),
Speak, is it not a crying sin,
That Folly's guts are to his chin,
Whilst mine are slunk a mile into my back?
(For you have much to give away,
And much your gentle patronage I lack),
Speak, is it not a crying sin,
That Folly's guts are to his chin,
Whilst mine are slunk a mile into my back?
Oft as his sacred Majesty I see,
Ah! George (I sigh) thou hast good things with thee,
Would make me sportive as a youthful cat;
It is not that my soul so loyal
Would wish to wed the Princess Royal,
Or be archbishop—no! I'm not for that.
Ah! George (I sigh) thou hast good things with thee,
Would make me sportive as a youthful cat;
It is not that my soul so loyal
Would wish to wed the Princess Royal,
Or be archbishop—no! I'm not for that.
Nor really have I got the grace
To wish for laureat Whitehead's place;
Whose odes Cibberian—sweet, yet very manly,
Are set with equal strength by Mr. Stanley.
To wish for laureat Whitehead's place;
Whose odes Cibberian—sweet, yet very manly,
Are set with equal strength by Mr. Stanley.
Would not one swear that Heav'n lov'd fools,
There's such a number of them made;
Bum-proof to all the flogging of the schools,
No ray of knowledge could their skulls pervade?
Yet, take a peep into those fellows' breeches,
We stare like congers, to observe their riches.
There's such a number of them made;
Bum-proof to all the flogging of the schools,
No ray of knowledge could their skulls pervade?
Yet, take a peep into those fellows' breeches,
We stare like congers, to observe their riches.
O Genius; what a wretch art thou,
Thou canst not keep a mare nor cow,
With all thy compliment of wit so frisky!
Whilst Folly, as a mill-horse blind,
Beside his compter, gold can find,
And Sundays sport a strumpet and a whisky!
Thou canst not keep a mare nor cow,
With all thy compliment of wit so frisky!
Whilst Folly, as a mill-horse blind,
Beside his compter, gold can find,
And Sundays sport a strumpet and a whisky!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |