The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Then unto majesty shalt thou repeat
The lines that are to majesty a treat,
Proverbs that œconomic souls revere;
To wit—‘A pin a day's a groat a year’—
‘A little saving is no sin’—
‘Near is my shirt, but nearer is my skin’—
‘A penny sav'd, a penny got’—
‘'Tis money makes the old mare trot’—
Then say, ‘With such wise counsellors, I'm sure
No monarch ever can be poor.’

260

Say too, ‘Great sir, your queen is very rich—
Witness the di'monds lodg'd in ev'ry stitch
Of madam's petticoat , of broad effulgence;
Where flame such jewels on its ample field,
As only to her charms and virtues yield,
So very noble, God's and man's indulgence!’

Now may'st thou raise thy tone a little higher—
Not 'squire, for that's impertinent, but ‘Sire,’
Firm shalt thou say, ‘the realm is not a wizard,
Quick with a word to make the guineas start,
To please a monarch's gold-admiring heart—
In short, Britannia grumbles in her gizzard.

‘Sire, let me say, the realm will smell a rat,
And cry, “Oh! oh! I know what you are at—
Is this your cunning, Master Billy Pitt?
What, Master Billy try to touch his grace?
To keep your most, most honourable place?
Is this your flaming patriotic sit?

“Thick as may be the head of poor John Bull,
The beast hath got some brains within his skull;
A pair of dangerous horns, too, let me add;
Dare but to make the generous creature mad.”

Thus may'st thou decently thy voice exalt—
And add, ‘Soft fires, O monarch, make good malt;
The kiln much forc'd, may blaze about our ears,
And then may fate be busy with his sheers—
For then, with all his fame, your daring 'squire
May, rat-like, squeak unpitied in the fire.’

Proclaim that reputation is a jewel,
And life, without it, merely water-gruel—

261

Say, that a king who seeks a deathless name,
Turns not to newspapers to find a fame;
Where paragraphs (a ministerial job)
Report the half-crown howlings of a mob.

Inform the monarch, when he goes to heav'n,
Verse to his parting spirit may be giv'n;
Ev'n Peter's verse, for which a thousand sigh—
Verse which the poet ev'n to brutes can give,
To bid their lucky names immortal live,
Yet to a king the sacred gift deny!

Say, ‘Sire, we've crippled the poor people's backs;
Dread sir, they are most miserable hacks—
How 'tis they bear it all, is my surprise!
I cannot catch another tax indeed,
With all your fox-hounds noses, and my speed,
Your humble greyhound, though all teeth and eyes.

‘The state, sir, you will candidly allow,
Has been t'ye a most excellent milch cow;
For you, ah! many a bucket has been fill'd—
But trust me, sir, the cow must not be kill'd.

‘So numerous are your wants, and they so keen,
That verily a hundred thousand pounds
Seem just as in a bullocks mouth a bean!
A pound of butter midst a pack of hounds!
Have mercy on us, sir—you can't be poor—
Your coffers really must be running o'er.’

Say, ‘Sire your wisdom is prodigious great!
Then do not put your servant in a sweat—
He hates snap-dragon—'tis a game of danger—

262

The sound, more money, the whole realm appals;
Still, still it vibrates on Saint Stephen's walls;
Our beast, the public, soon must eat the manger.’

Say, ‘Good my liege, indeed there's no more hay—
Kind-hearted king, indeed there's no more corn—
Our hack, Old England, sadly falls away;
Lean as old Rosinante and forlorn.’

Say, ‘Sire, your parliament I dare not meet;
For verily I've some remains of grace—
If forc'd with money-messages to greet,
Your majesty must lend me H---ry's face.

263

‘I know what parliament will say, so mad—
“More money, Master Billy! very fine!
The impudence of highwaymen, my lad,
By G---! is perfect modesty to thine.”
‘Sire, sire, the moment that I mention money,
I'm sure the answer will be “Ninny nonny.”’

This famous petticoat affordeth a pleasant history —one part of which is, that it was watched all night by a certain great man, on a particular occasion, to prevent its being stolen.

This is literally true. I, the lyric Peter, assert, that I have written a most beautiful elegy to an old friend, a dying ass, with more feeling than I could compliment the deaths of half the kings in Christendom.

The cry of ‘More money, more money,’ brings to recollection a little dialogue, amongst the many, that happened between the king of the Mosquitoes and myself, in the Government-house at Jamaica, during the administration of the late Sir William Trelawny. —His majesty was a very stout black man, exceedingly ignorant, nevertheless possessed of the sublimest ideas of royalty; very riotous, and grievously inclined to get drunk. He came to me one day, with a voice more like that of a bullock than a king, roaring, ‘Mo drink for king, mo drink for king!’

P. P.

King you are drunk already.

KING.

No! no! king no drunk—King no drunk—Mo drink for king—Broder George love drink (meaning the king of England.)

P. P.

Broder George does not love drink: he is a sober man.

KING.

But king of Musquito love drink—me will have mo drink—me love drink like devil—me drink whole ocean.