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] | ||
ODE IV.
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.’
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!’
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.
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?
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.”
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.’
And life, without it, merely water-gruel—
Turns not to newspapers to find a fame;
Where paragraphs (a ministerial job)
Report the half-crown howlings of a mob.
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!
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.
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.
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.’
Then do not put your servant in a sweat—
He hates snap-dragon—'tis a game of danger—
Still, still it vibrates on Saint Stephen's walls;
Our beast, the public, soon must eat the manger.’
Kind-hearted king, indeed there's no more corn—
Our hack, Old England, sadly falls away;
Lean as old Rosinante and forlorn.’
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.
“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.
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||