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] |  |
253
ODE I.
More money wanted?—'tis a brazen lie;
'Tis Opposition's disappointed cry:
A poison'd shaft to wound the best of kings—
More money! 'tis a poor invented story,
To cloud with dire disgrace the king of glory—
Damn'd shears to clip his Fame's exalted wings.
'Tis Opposition's disappointed cry:
A poison'd shaft to wound the best of kings—
More money! 'tis a poor invented story,
To cloud with dire disgrace the king of glory—
Damn'd shears to clip his Fame's exalted wings.
More money!—'tis a little dirty tale,
To sink of popularity the gale
That wafts the name of George to utmost earth;
A snake that should be strangled in its birth.
To sink of popularity the gale
That wafts the name of George to utmost earth;
A snake that should be strangled in its birth.
More money!—'tis a paltry trick so mean,
To make us sick of our good king and queen!
We have no more to give—a truce to grants,
That make the state a field devour'd by wants :
The rust that eats the cannon—the rank weed—
That dares the vessel's course sublime impede;
The worm that gnaws its native keel, th' ingrate,
And opes the world of waters for its fate;
A spreading cancer that demands the knife;
That, wolf-like, preys upon the nation's life.
To make us sick of our good king and queen!
We have no more to give—a truce to grants,
That make the state a field devour'd by wants :
The rust that eats the cannon—the rank weed—
That dares the vessel's course sublime impede;
The worm that gnaws its native keel, th' ingrate,
And opes the world of waters for its fate;
A spreading cancer that demands the knife;
That, wolf-like, preys upon the nation's life.
254
More money!—what a sound!—the solemn bell
That tolls the constitution's knell.
Clap a hot iron on the patriot tongues,
For loading spotless majesty with wrongs:
Nay, tear those tongues, th' offenders, from their holes,
Foul pumps, that pour the froth from poison'd souls,
The monarch scorns to ask a penny more—
Tax'd to the eyes, his groans the state deplore:
Away, then, defamation's baleful breath,
That blows on virtue's bud, the blight of death.
That tolls the constitution's knell.
Clap a hot iron on the patriot tongues,
For loading spotless majesty with wrongs:
Nay, tear those tongues, th' offenders, from their holes,
Foul pumps, that pour the froth from poison'd souls,
The monarch scorns to ask a penny more—
Tax'd to the eyes, his groans the state deplore:
Away, then, defamation's baleful breath,
That blows on virtue's bud, the blight of death.
Yet should it happen that the best of kings
Should whisper to his minister strange things,
And bid thee money ask, the tempting curse;
Then firmly thou, the nation's steward, say
(With rev'rence due to royalty, I pray),
‘Dread sir, have mercy on your people's purse.
Should whisper to his minister strange things,
And bid thee money ask, the tempting curse;
Then firmly thou, the nation's steward, say
(With rev'rence due to royalty, I pray),
‘Dread sir, have mercy on your people's purse.
‘O king, your calculations have misled ye:
Millions on millions you have had already.
Oh! let Discretion from the virtue band
Be call'd to court, to take you by the hand.
Millions on millions you have had already.
Oh! let Discretion from the virtue band
Be call'd to court, to take you by the hand.
‘You really do not know how rich you are:
Your wealth so wondrous makes your subjects stare,
Squeez'd from great cities, towns, and hovels:
Hawksb'ry and Coutts can show such heaps of treasure,
Such loads of guineas for the royal pleasure,
Heav'd into iron chests with shovels!
Then how can majesty be poor?
Your coffers, sir, are running o'er.’
Your wealth so wondrous makes your subjects stare,
Squeez'd from great cities, towns, and hovels:
Hawksb'ry and Coutts can show such heaps of treasure,
Such loads of guineas for the royal pleasure,
Heav'd into iron chests with shovels!
Then how can majesty be poor?
Your coffers, sir, are running o'er.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |