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] |  |
271
AN ACADEMIC ODE.
[_]
[This Ode was written some years since, and was mislaid; but is fortunately recovered.—It hinteth at the universal Rage for Reputation, and attacketh Painters, who pitifully wince at the gently-reforming Touch of Criticism.]
Alas! who has not fondness for a name?
Lo, Nature wove it in our infant frame!
From ear-delighters, down to ear-confounders,
Each vainly fancies he possesses killing tones;
Ev'n from the Maras and the Billingtons,
Down to the wide-mouth rascals crying flounders—
Nay, proud too of that instrument the rattle,
That draws the hobbling brotherhood to battle,
Nay, watchmen deem their merits no way small,
Proud of a loud, clear, melancholy bawl.
Lo, Nature wove it in our infant frame!
From ear-delighters, down to ear-confounders,
Each vainly fancies he possesses killing tones;
Ev'n from the Maras and the Billingtons,
Down to the wide-mouth rascals crying flounders—
Nay, proud too of that instrument the rattle,
That draws the hobbling brotherhood to battle,
Nay, watchmen deem their merits no way small,
Proud of a loud, clear, melancholy bawl.
Yes, yes! much vanity's in human nature—
Like mad dogs, that abhor the water,
The painters hate to hear their faults display'd—
And though I sing them in the best of rhimes,
Such are the reformation-cursing times,
The foolish fellows really wish me dead.
Like mad dogs, that abhor the water,
The painters hate to hear their faults display'd—
And though I sing them in the best of rhimes,
Such are the reformation-cursing times,
The foolish fellows really wish me dead.
Now this is great depravity, I fear—
My tale, too, proveth it, as noon-day clear.
My tale, too, proveth it, as noon-day clear.
272
THE TALE OF VAN TRUMP.
Mynheer Van Trump, who painteth very well,
Flam'd at my gentle criticisms, like hell—
‘Poor vretch,’ cried Trump, ‘I'm much dat rogue's superiors—
Ven he, poor lousy dog, be ded an rot,
Van Trump by peeples vil not be forgot,
But lif in all de mouths of my posteriors’—
Meaning indeed by this severity,
His name would live to all posterity.
Flam'd at my gentle criticisms, like hell—
‘Poor vretch,’ cried Trump, ‘I'm much dat rogue's superiors—
Ven he, poor lousy dog, be ded an rot,
Van Trump by peeples vil not be forgot,
But lif in all de mouths of my posteriors’—
Meaning indeed by this severity,
His name would live to all posterity.
Upon a day, some goodly folks and fine,
Arriv'd, to barter praise for beef and wine;
Academicians were the wights, I trow,
The very men to dine with Van and Vrow.
Arriv'd, to barter praise for beef and wine;
Academicians were the wights, I trow,
The very men to dine with Van and Vrow.
To Madam Trump did fall the carving work—
So sticking in a fowl's sweet breast her fork—
‘I wish this fork,’ quoth angry Madam Trump,
Wriggling from side to side her angry rump,
‘Were now as deep in Peter Pindar's heart.’
‘Vell zed—dat's clever—Jantelmans, dat's vit,’
Quoth Van—‘spake it vonce more, my dear, a bit—
‘Now don't you tink, sirs, dat my vrow's dam smart?
So sticking in a fowl's sweet breast her fork—
‘I wish this fork,’ quoth angry Madam Trump,
Wriggling from side to side her angry rump,
‘Were now as deep in Peter Pindar's heart.’
‘Vell zed—dat's clever—Jantelmans, dat's vit,’
Quoth Van—‘spake it vonce more, my dear, a bit—
‘Now don't you tink, sirs, dat my vrow's dam smart?
Now, jantelmans, I ax you if you please,’
Roar'd Van, upstarting—catching fire like tinder—
‘Will drenk von dam goot bumper 'pon our knees—
Come, sirs, “Damnation to dat Peter Pindar.”’
Plump down the great academicians fell,
And hearty drank th' immortal bard to hell!
Roar'd Van, upstarting—catching fire like tinder—
‘Will drenk von dam goot bumper 'pon our knees—
Come, sirs, “Damnation to dat Peter Pindar.”’
Plump down the great academicians fell,
And hearty drank th' immortal bard to hell!
Such, I'm asham'd to say, 's the dev'lish mind,
Contaminating poor mankind.
Contaminating poor mankind.
Here too a little moral may be seen—
Reformers are good folks, the million hate;
And who, if hang'd, or shot, or burnt, I ween,
Repentant, find their folly out, too late.
Reformers are good folks, the million hate;
And who, if hang'd, or shot, or burnt, I ween,
Repentant, find their folly out, too late.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |