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] |  |
ADDRESS TO MY BOOK,
AN ELEGY.
Few are thy friends, and manifold thy foes!
Whether or long or short will be thy date,
Futurity's dark volume only knows.
Severe thine ordeal, I am sore afraid!
Some judges will condemn, and others not:
Some call thy form substantial—others, shade.
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.
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.
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.
Started for beagles, hounds, and curs, to chase!
A mongrel dog may snap thee up unfair;
For spite and hunger have but little grace.
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!
The butch'ring shop of criticism employs!
Each beardless villain now cuts up, and flays!
A gang of wanton, brutal, 'prentice boys!
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!
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!
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!
The king, with curiosity so wild,
May on a sudden send for thee, and say,
‘See, Charly, Peter's child—fine child, fine child:
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.’
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.
(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] | |