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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| III. | ODE III. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE III.
Say to thy king (but, as I've said before
With due respect), ‘By G---, you can't be poor.
Sometimes a little concert is made up,
Where nought is giv'n to eat or sup—
Where music makes an economic pother;
Where, with a solitary tweedle tweedle,
A pretty melancholy fiddle
Squeaks at the absence of his little brother,
Whose presence would be much enjoy'd,
But costs too much to be employ'd!
Where Fischer's instrument (a frugal choice)
Serves both for hautboys and for voice—
As Billington and Mara, to the king,
And that perverse Storace would not sing.
With due respect), ‘By G---, you can't be poor.
Sometimes a little concert is made up,
Where nought is giv'n to eat or sup—
Where music makes an economic pother;
Where, with a solitary tweedle tweedle,
A pretty melancholy fiddle
Squeaks at the absence of his little brother,
Whose presence would be much enjoy'd,
But costs too much to be employ'd!
Where Fischer's instrument (a frugal choice)
Serves both for hautboys and for voice—
As Billington and Mara, to the king,
And that perverse Storace would not sing.
‘Lo! by some woman's order (fie upon her!)
The pretty, harmless, modest maids of honour
Are forc'd to furnish for their beds, the sheet;
The pillow-cases too, says Fame,
By order of some high commanding dame,
To whose sweet soul economy is sweet.
The pretty, harmless, modest maids of honour
Are forc'd to furnish for their beds, the sheet;
The pillow-cases too, says Fame,
By order of some high commanding dame,
To whose sweet soul economy is sweet.
‘Dear maids of honour! what a sin of sins,
That Britain can't accomodate your skins!
‘Poor Generosity is sadly lam'd;
And yet the noble beast was ne'er rode hard—
Pale, cold Œconomy seems quite asham'd,
Who never plays an idle card:
Nay, Avarice, her mother, with surprise
Turns up the whites, so sad, of both her eyes.
That Britain can't accomodate your skins!
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And yet the noble beast was ne'er rode hard—
Pale, cold Œconomy seems quite asham'd,
Who never plays an idle card:
Nay, Avarice, her mother, with surprise
Turns up the whites, so sad, of both her eyes.
‘To wit you nothing give—to learning nought:
Lo, in his garret, Mathematics pines,
Where, hungry after bread and cheese and thought,
He forms with brother spiders useless lines.
Lo, in his garret, Mathematics pines,
Where, hungry after bread and cheese and thought,
He forms with brother spiders useless lines.
‘Th' expense of new-year's ode is felt no more!
Thus is that needless, tuneless hubbub o'er:
All praise must centre in the birth-day song:
The virtues must be lump'd together—yes!
And then (if subjects may presume to guess)
The laureat need not make it very long.
Thus is that needless, tuneless hubbub o'er:
All praise must centre in the birth-day song:
The virtues must be lump'd together—yes!
And then (if subjects may presume to guess)
The laureat need not make it very long.
‘A load of praise is nauseous stuff—
Sire, don't you think, at times, one line enough?
What's christen'd merit, often wants a crutch—
Thus then a single line may be too much.
Sire, don't you think, at times, one line enough?
What's christen'd merit, often wants a crutch—
Thus then a single line may be too much.
‘In vain the first of poets tunes his pipe;
His whistle ne'er squeez'd sixpence from your gripe—
Vain all epistles, vain his heav'nly odes:
No, no! poor Peter may his strain prolong;
The dev'l a farthing will reward his song,
The song that should have celebrated gods!
His whistle ne'er squeez'd sixpence from your gripe—
Vain all epistles, vain his heav'nly odes:
No, no! poor Peter may his strain prolong;
The dev'l a farthing will reward his song,
The song that should have celebrated gods!
‘In vain for royal patronage he sigh'd:
In vain (some say) the modest bard apply'd
To gain his book your patronizing name—
And if this bard, whom all the Nine inspire,
Instead of generous oil to feed his fire,
Finds cold cold water flung upon his flame:
If he, ah! vainly sighs for dedication,
Woe to the witlings of the nation!
In vain (some say) the modest bard apply'd
To gain his book your patronizing name—
And if this bard, whom all the Nine inspire,
Instead of generous oil to feed his fire,
Finds cold cold water flung upon his flame:
If he, ah! vainly sighs for dedication,
Woe to the witlings of the nation!
‘What though uncouth his shape, and dark his face;
Whose breeding mother might for charcoal long;
Still may the bard abound in verse and grace,
And love for majesty, divinely strong.
Whose breeding mother might for charcoal long;
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And love for majesty, divinely strong.
‘Then heed not, sire, a clumsy form so fat,
And sombre phiz, Dame Nature's work, unkind:
Great mousing qualities, with many a cat,
Of perfect ugliness, a lodging find.
And sombre phiz, Dame Nature's work, unkind:
Great mousing qualities, with many a cat,
Of perfect ugliness, a lodging find.
‘Observe a fat, black, greasy lump of coal;
Lo, to that most ungraceful piece of earth,
A warm and lively lustre owes its birth;
A flame in this world, pleasant to the soul.
Lo, to that most ungraceful piece of earth,
A warm and lively lustre owes its birth;
A flame in this world, pleasant to the soul.
‘To shapeless clouds, that, waggon-like, along
Move cumb'rous, scowling on the twilight heav'n,
At times, behold, the purest snows belong!
To such, of rain the lucid drops are giv'n:
Nay, 'mid the mass so murky and forlorn,
Behold the lightning's vivid beam is born!’
Move cumb'rous, scowling on the twilight heav'n,
At times, behold, the purest snows belong!
To such, of rain the lucid drops are giv'n:
Nay, 'mid the mass so murky and forlorn,
Behold the lightning's vivid beam is born!’
Say—‘Mighty monarch, modest merit pines,
‘Hid like the useless gem amid the mines.
Your gaacious smile, which all the world reveres,
Your wealth had open'd her pale closing eye,
Which hope once brighten'd with a spark of joy,
And cruel disappointment quench'd with tears.’
‘Hid like the useless gem amid the mines.
Your gaacious smile, which all the world reveres,
Your wealth had open'd her pale closing eye,
Which hope once brighten'd with a spark of joy,
And cruel disappointment quench'd with tears.’
When Monsieur Nicolai, his majesty's first favourite, first fiddle, and first news-monger, went with his majesty's commands to Madam St*****, to assist at a sort of a concert at Buckingham-house, the songstress, smiling on him with the most ineffable contempt, asked him, ‘What, Nicolai, I am to sing at the old price, I suppose?’ meaning nothing, —‘My compliments to your master and mistress, and tell them I am better engaged.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |