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

Sons of Saint Crispin, 'tis in vain!
Indeed 'tis fruitless to complain.—
I know you wish good beef or veal to carve:
But first the hungry great must all be fed;
Mean time, you all must chew hard, musty bread,
Or, what is commonly unpleasant, starve.

Your masters like yourselves, oppression feel—
It is not they, would wish to stint your meal:
Then suck your paws like bears, and be resign'd.
Perhaps your sins are many; and if so,
Heav'n gives us very frequently, we know,
The great as scourges for mankind.
Your masters soon may follow you, so lank—
Undone by simple confidence in rank.

The royal Richmond builds his state on coals;
Sal'sb'ry, and Hawksb'ry, lofty souls,
With their fair dames must have the ball and rout;
Kings must our millions have, to make a glare;
Whose sycophants must also have a share.—
But pout not—'tis a libel, sirs, to pout—

286

Clos'd be your mouths, or dread the jail or thong:
You must not for your money have a song.
Cease, cease your riots, pray, my friends:
It answereth (believe me) no good ends.—
And yet the time will come, I hope to God,
When black-fac'd, damn'd oppression, to his den
Shall howling fly before the curse of men,
And feel of anger'd justice the sharp rod.

Go home, I beg of ye, my friends, and eat
Your sour, your mouldy bread, and offal meat;
Till freedom comes—I see her on her way—
Then shall a smile break forth upon each mien,
The front of banish'd happiness be seen,
And sons of Crispin, you once more be gay.

Now go, and learn submission from your Bible;
Complaint is now-a-day a flagrant libel.
Yes, go and try to chew your mouldy bread—
Justice is sick, I own, but is not dead.
Let Grandeur roll her chariot on our necks,
Submission, sweet humility bespeaks:
Let Grandeur's plumes be lifted by our sighs—
Let dice, and chariots, and the stately thrones,
Be form'd of poor men's hard-work'd bones—
We must contribute; or, lo, Grandeur dies.
We are the parish that supports her show;
A truth that Grandeur wishes not to know.

Full many a time reluctantly, I own,
I view our mighty rulers with a groan,
Who eat the labours of us vulgar crew;
Bask on our shoulders in their lazy state;
And if we dare look up for ease, th' ingrate
Look down, and ask us, ‘D*m'me, who are you?

Now such forgetfulness is most unpleasant!
The man who doth receive a hare or pheasant,
Might somewhat, certainly, from manners spare,
And say, ‘I thank ye for the bird or hare.’—

287

But then I'm told agen, that Grandeur's sore
At owning obligations to the poor—
Such favours cut no figure in discourse:
She thinks she might as well thank dogs and cats
For finding partridges, and catching rats;
And say, ‘I'm much oblig'd t'ye,’ to a horse.

Lo, to the great we breathe the sigh in vain;
A zephyr murm'ring through the hollow walls;
Our tear, that tries to melt their souls, the rain
That printless on the rock of ages falls!

The lofty great must have the softest bed
To lay the soft luxurious head;
And from our bosoms we poor geese, so tame,
Must pluck submissively the tender feather;
Ourselves expos'd to nature's rudest weather,
Deny'd the liberty to cry out, ‘Shame!’
Thus, whilst their heads the pillow's down imprint,
Ours must be only bolster'd by a flint.

You must not heed your children's hunger'd cry,
Not once upon their little sorrows sigh—
In tears their blubber'd faces let them steep,
And howl their hunger and their grief to sleep.
'Tis impudence in babes to cry for bread—
Lo, Grandeur's fav'rite dogs must first be fed!—

See yon proud duchess—yet of late so poor,
With not above ten thousand pounds a year:
Behold, a hundred coaches at her door,
Where Pharo triumphs in his mad career.
We must support her, or by hook or crook—
For lo, her husband was—a royal duke.

We must support too her fine gold-lac'd crew,
Behind her gilt coach, dancing Molly fellows,
With canes and ruffles goodly to the view,
And (suiting their complexions) pink umbrellas.
It must be so; for lordly Grandeur rules—
Lo! quality are gods, and mob are mules.

288

I know you wish to see on gold, so good,
King George's head, that many a want supplies;
So very pleasant to his people's eyes,
As pleasant as the head of flesh and blood.
Money's a rattling sinner, to be sure:
Like the sweet Cyprian girl (we won't say wh---e)
Is happy to be frequently employ'd,
And not content by one to be enjoy'd;
Yet, like the great ones, with fastidious eye
Seems of inferior mortals rather shy.

Then go, my friends, and chew your mouldy bread:
'Tis on our shoulders courts must lift the head.
Remember, we are only oxen yet—
Therefore, beneath the yoke, condemn'd to sweat.
But gradually we all shall change to men;
And then!!! what then?—Ye heav'ns! why then
The lawless sway of Tyranny is o'er—
Pride falls, and Britons will be beasts no more!