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

Ah, Burke! full sorry is the Muse indeed
That thou art from the patriot phalanx fled!
For what? To crouch and flatter queens and kings?
Meanly to mingle with a courtier gang,
That Infamy herself would scorn to hang—
Such a poor squalid host of creeping things

Has madness fir'd thy brain? Alas! return:
Thy fault in sackcloth and in ashes mourn:
Join not a court, and Freedom's foulest foes—
Repentance, lo, shall try to wash thee white:
Then howl not, Edmund, 'mid the imps of night:
Swell not the number of a flock of crows.

What murky cloud, the vapour black of courts
(For many a cloud, the breath of kings supports)
Attempts thy reputation's spreading beam?
What bat-like demon, with the damned'st spite,
Springs on thy fame, on Glory's sacred height,
To souse it in Disgrace's dirty stream?—

Alas! if majesty did gracious say,
‘Burke, Burke, I'm glad, I'm glad you ran away;
I'm glad you left your party—very glad—
They wish'd to treat me like a boy at school;
Rope, rope me like a horse, an ass, a mule—
That's very bad, you know, that's very bad.—

‘I hate the Portland junto—hate it, Burke—
Poor rogues, poor rogues, that cannot draw a cork—

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Nothing but empty dishes, empty dishes—
We've got the loaves and fishes, loaves and fishes.’

I say, if thus a mighty monarch spoke
As usual—not by way of joke;
Did not the speech so with'ring make thee shrink?
Didst thou not inward say, ‘I've damn'd myself—
‘Why, what a miserable elf!’
And then upon each old acquaintance think;
And with a sigh recall those Attic days,
When wit and wisdom pour'd the mingled blaze!

Burke, Burke, most easily do I discover
Thou loathest the weak smile that won thee over—
From Tr---ry borrow'd, ne'er to be return'd!
Ev'n now thou art not happy at thy heart—
It sighs for Wisdom's voice, and pants to part
From fellows by the honest Virtues spurn'd.

Thy tongue has promis'd friendship with a sigh—
For, lo, th' interpreter of thoughts, thine eye
Hangs heavy, beamless on the motley band—
To whom thou stretchest forth thy leaden hand!
Yes, slowly does that hand of friendship move:
The startled courtiers feel no grasp of love:
A cold and palsied shake of gratulation,
As though it trembled at contamination!

O Burke! behold fair Liberty advancing—
Truth, Wit, and Humour, sporting in her train:
Behold them happy, singing, laughing, dancing,
Proud of a golden age again!
When all thy friends (thy friends of late, I mean)
Shall, flush'd with conquest, meet their idol queen,
The goddess at whose shrine a world should kneel;
When they with songs of triumph hail the dame,
Will not thy cheek be dash'd with deepest shame,
And conscience somewhat startled feel?

Ah! will thine eye a gladsome beam display:
Borrow from smooth Hypocrisy's a ray,

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To hail the long-desir'd return?
Speak, wilt thou screw into a smile thy mouth,
And welcome Liberty, with Wit and Truth;
And for a moment leave thy gang to mourn?
Yes, thou wilt greet her with a half-forc'd smile,
Quitting thy virtuous company a while,
To say, ‘Dear Madam, welcome—how dy'e do?’
And then the dame will answer with a dip,
Scorn in her eye, contempt upon her lip,
‘Not much the better, Mister Burke, for you.’
‘Poor Burke, I read thy soul, and feel thy pain—
Go, join the sycophants that I disdain.’