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

The frequent complaint of ignorance, partiality, profusion, &c. exhibited against the Most Noble Musical Directors, together with their quarrels with the principal singers and performers, having brought them into unpopularity; and what seemed worst of all, the Most Noble Directors having imprudently made a public declaration, without his majesty's consent, that there was an end of Abbey Commemoration, such a favourite hobby-horse of majesty; the king resolved on their dismission from all and every interference at the oratorio to be performed at St. Margaret's church. The immediate consequence of the royal denunciation was the displeasure of the directors, and was also, of consequence, the displeasure of the Lyric Bard, who sighed on the mournful occasion, and took up the cudgels in their defence. Great has been the cry against them, that they feasted at the Saint Alban's Tavern, at the expense of the Musical Fund. Although I do not credit such rumour, I have taken the fact for granted, that (like their deputies, who actually did feast at different times at

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the Saint Alban's Tavern, at the expense of the fund) the Noble Directors did condescendingly show the example; and I have hinted that those Most Noble Directors had as fair a right to be rewarded with dinners as parish officers and their friends, who so frequently have a jovial meeting, to eat and tipple eleemosinary on the birth of a bastard.

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PROLOGUE TO THE ODES;

OR, THE TEARS OF ST. MARGARET

Now Night, the negro, reign'd—‘Past one o'clock,’
The drowsy watchman bawl'd—from murky vaults,
The dough-fac'd spectres crowded forth—the eye,
The sunk, the wearied eye of Toil, was clos'd:
Mute, Nature's busied voice, her brawl and hum;
While Horror, creeping on the world of gloom,
Breath'd her dark spirit through the death-like hour—
Now from her silver-fringed east the moon
Peep'd on the vast of shade—up-mounting slow,
In solemn stillness, till her lab'ring orb,
Freed from the caves of darkness, gain'd its sphere,
And mov'd in splendid solitude along.
At this blank hour of awe, amid her fane,
That caught a partial radiance on its walls
A radiance stealing on the shadowy tombs,
Illuminating death,—the pious maid,
Whose flesh did wonders in its days of bloom,
And bones work'd marvels when she smil'd no ore,
The pensive Margaretta stalk'd, and paus'd,
And paus'd and stalk'd, and stalk'd and paus'd agen;
Now nailing to the twilight floor her eye;
Now gazing on the holy windows dim;
Now motionless, and now with hurrying step

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Along the hollow-sounding aisle she pass'd;
And leaning lorn at murder'd Raleigh's tomb,
Of Silence wak'd the pale and sacred sleep,
With plaintive accent, thus ------

MARGARET's LAMENTATION.

WHY should yon old Abbey, should'ring
My poor fane with Gothic pride,
Cracking, sinking, falling, mould'ring,
On the back of Marg'ret ride?

What is that huge ruin's merit?
Only fit for housing rats.
Be her guests, with all my spirit,
Hooting owls, and horrid bats!

Why am I to be despis'd,
Why am I to be kept under;
I who once by kings was priz'd?
What's the meaning on't, I wonder?

I whose pow'r could agues charm,
Fits and tooth-aches, cramps and evils;
Satan's wicked self disarm;
Him, the great proud prince of devils.

Lo, that abbey for past years,
At each grand commemoration,
For Directors boasted peers—
Peers the glory of the nation!

Who were my directors? Lo,
Doctor Parsons, Justice Collic;
Arnold and Dupuis and Co.
What a very pretty frolic!

But 'tis said the king commanded,
And the grand Directors fell:
By the king were they disbanded?
Fame will blush the tale to tell.

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Soon I'll go (for what should hinder?)
To the first of rhiming men;
To that giant Peter Pindar—
He shall hear—and then, and then!!

Peter in his wrath shall rise,
And the scythe of verse prepare;
Lo, I see his lightning eyes!
Lo, his arm of vengeance bare!

Backs of monarchs shall he slice,
As he scorns them so sincerely—
Woman need not ask him twice;
Peter loves the ladies dearly.

Thus spoke the saint!—When Morn her blushes spread,
To Covent-garden's square she wing'd her flight,
And drew the curtains of the poet's bed,
Who fortunately slept alone that night.

To him she told her story o'er and o'er;
When Peter, rous'd by Marg'ret's sad narration,
Pull'd off his night-cap, and devoutly swore
He'd roast a certain ruler of a nation.

Saint Marg'ret thank'd the bard with sweetest smiles,
And Peter thunder'd on the King of Isles.

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ODES OF CONDOLENCE.

ODE I.

The Poet breaks mournfully out on the fall of the Noble Directors—Threatens to expostulate with the King—Laments the Loss of Direction-importance, Boxes, White Wands, and Dinners at the Saint Alban's Tavern, &c.

Poor Leeds! poor Uxbridge! and poor Joah Bates!
And all ye other poor ones, of hard fates!
'Tis a strange man this king of ours indeed—
There's reason, to be sure, in roasting eggs!
What? raise an oratorio at Saint Peg's,
And set a thing on foot without a head!

What? could the king have music in a church,
And leave the great directors in the lurch?
Ev'n so!—but lo, I'll parley with the king,
And such a peal into his ears I'll ring!

Thus will I say, howe'er it may disgust—
‘An't please your majesty, you are unjust.’

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‘How, how?’ the king will cry, with wild rapidity,
‘Yes, sire, the grand directors take it ill;
Deeming themselves all men of tuneful skill,
And having all for crotchets, hawk-avidity;

‘That they should lose the lead in this affair,
Which really makes them marvel, and so stare,
Not knowing what offence they have committed;
Being a set of very clever men,
So stuff'd with crotchet-knowledges, and then
For oratorios so nicely fitted!

‘Behold no boxes for directors! no!
Who at the abbey form'd a raree-show,
With nice kid gloves, medallions, wands so white!
Tagrag and bobtail now condemn'd to join;
What's ten times worse, condemned to pull out coin;
Men so unus'd to pay a single doit!

‘When proud to view of royalty the rays,
Your subjects had their bellies full of gaze,
Amid the Abbey's glory for past years;
Then would they ponder on the white-stick row,
Of Uxbridge, Grey de Wilton, Leeds, and Co.
And, next to majesty, admire the peers.

‘Who's that slim, whey-fac'd gentleman, and thin,
With some old gentlewoman's nose and chin?
And he so surly, with a sable face?’
Would gaping strangers all so curious cry;
When, all so solemn, I have made reply,
That lord is Leeds's very noble grace.

‘With lath-like form, whey face, and cheeks so thin,
And good old gentlewoman's nose and chin—
And he who lours as though he meant to bite,
Is earl of Uxbridge, with his face of night.’
And then I've told the names of all the rest;
At which the strangers have been all so blest,
Bow'd, curtsy'd low, so grateful—I don't doubt it,
They told their dear relations all about it!

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‘No more directors challenge admiration!
No more the tuneful rulers of a nation!
Unknown in vulgar seats they bite their thumbs;
Now half awake they nod, and now they sleep,
And now they sigh, and now in dreams they weep,
And mumble much displeasure midst their gums.

‘Heav'ns? with what huge delight their eyes would hail
The breeches blazing at Saint Marg'ret's tail,
Instead of Stephen, who, to all belief,
Poor fellow, must have travell'd with a brief!

‘But, sir, this is not all—for in your ear,
Something more horrible brings up the rear!
No longer on the tweedle-dum account,
At yon fair tavern in Saint Alban's street,
Those men of taste and music joyful greet,
And load their stomachs to a large amount;

‘All for the good of the poor fund, so kind!
Now this is dreadful to my simple mind;
To think those titled men, whose valiant jaws,
And stomachs all so keen, and deep as sacks,
And teeth so valorous in feast attacks,
So bravely battled in the tuneful cause,
Should, by the royal word so hard commanded,
Disgracefully be turn'd adrift—disbanded!

‘I hear, I hear the angry lords exclaim,
‘Thus to be all discarded! 'tis a shame—
‘The royal mandate will be cruel styl'd—

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Behold churchwardens, overseers so sleek!
Read their card-invitations ev'ry week—
‘Sir you're desir'd to come and eat a child.’
One child a week they constantly devour—
Sometimes they eat two children—sometimes four—
If thus those fellows live, the lazy drones,
Lords of a charity may pick the bones;
Yes, as provisions are so very dear,
Eat a few fiddlers once or twice a year.”

‘Such is the language lords employ, O king,
Enough the hearts of savages to wring,
And make, I hope, your royal conscience ache—
Such reas'nings are indeed extremely deep!
Why should of lords the teeth and stomachs sleep,
Whilst those of keen churchwardens are awake?

Thus to the king of nations will I cry—
But what will be his majesty's reply?—
‘Thank, thank ye, Peter, for supporting straws—
Good advocate—good, good, in a bad cause:
I'll have no more such doings, let me tell ye—
No, no, no eating calves in the cow's belly.’

Poor Saint Stephen had a very warm pair of breeches clapped to his **** lately; but the saint luckily shook them off.

To solicit charity, like many others who suffer by fire.

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ODE TO ST. CECILIA.

The Poet very loyally calls upon St. Cecila, the great Patroness of Music, by way of Justice of Peace, Constable, and Comforter, to come down from Heaven to the noble Directors, issue a Proclamation for dissolving Societies of Musical Instruments; taking them up, and knocking them to Pieces, as also the Heads of the Musicians against each other.—The Poet concludes with a Prophecy of returning Power to the Directors.

Divine Cecilia, pray, from Heav'n step down;
Most wondrous are the doings in this town!
Behold, behold a tuneful revolution!
Directors banished, but no execution!
Thank God, no grinning heads of lords, poor souls,
Amid the mob survey the streets on poles.
The fiddles screech with rapture one and all;
The flutes and hautboys whistle at the fall:
The pompous organ for rebellion ripe!
Glad of the long-wish'd overthrow, he opes,
To show the world his pleasure, all his stops,
And pours his thunders through each giant pipe!

Whilst all his pigmies, trilling, squeaking, squalling,
Like mad things, every one his tune, are bawling,
The hoarse bassoons their nasal twang employ—
And hog-like bases grunt the song of joy.

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Wild screams the trumpet's brazen notes so clear;
And on th' occasion, scorning to be mum,
Like cannon soundeth on the loaded ear,
At solemn intervals, the double drum.

The various instruments of wind and string,
Thus to the world in saucy triumph sing—
‘What are those Lord-directors?—arrant fools,
Mean mongrels—never bred in Music's schools—
With just as much of science as a pig;
Who scarcely know a psalm-tune from a jig.
Are these the men to lead us?—Music swears,
And to the pill'ry recommends their ears.’

And lo, of Music the choice bands,
Delighted, clap their madding hands;
And, raising to the stars their eyes devout,
‘Thank Heav'n,’ they roar, ‘those fellows are turn'd out.
No longer shall their tyranny impose,
And lead the king of nations by the nose.’

Then, sweet Cecilia, leave thy lofty station;
O haste and issue out thy proclamation—
Of wond'rous danger let it talk aloud—
Root up societies of flutes, bassoons;
Knock down the organ, for his rebel tunes,
The brazen trumpet break, and crack the crowd.

Lay on the necks of the rebellious band
Thy powerful and chastising hand—
And for their impudent and senseless pother
Sweet goddess, knock one head against another.

O haste and keep the mournful lords in heart,
As scarce a single mortal takes their part.
Except the lofty family of pride,
Few are the comforters they boast beside—

These are their constant friends indeed, and stout;
Friends that few nobles ever are without:

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Hereditary friends of ancient date,
Accompanying great title and estate.

And yet 'tis said no virtues can reside
Where dwells that lofty scowling spirit, pride;
That aconite, the noisome weed of gloom,
That near it suffers not a flow'r to bloom.

Joy to my soul! of Leeds his glorious grace
Puts forth a simpering sweet prophetic face,
Amid this rough mischance, that seems to say,
‘Though disappointment mocks the present hour,
Next year shall mark the triumph of my pow'r,
When Faction's scowling fiends shall shun the day.’

Thus when the monarch of the winds, in spite,
Rolls a dark phalanx on the golden light,
And blots the beauteous orb the world adorning,
Sol lifts the sable mantle of a cloud,
And peeping underneath the envious shroud,
Smiles hope, and says, ‘I'll shine to-morrow morning.’

ODE.

[Yet not alone are you by kings despis'd]

The bard advises the Directors to submit to their degraded Situation; and by way of Consolation, informs them of the fallen State of the Poets—and, moreover, comforts the Directors with the Changes that take place amongst crowned as well as un-crowned Heads.

Yet not alone are you by kings despis'd;
Lo, lofty poets are no longer priz'd,
That to an eagle turn'd a popinjay;

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That scorn'd of Time the ever-dreaded wars,
Turn'd winking rush-lights into blazing stars,
And stole from frail mortality, decay!

Poets, with that rare instrument call'd rhime,
Drew with the greatest ease the teeth of Time;
Snapp'd his broad scythe so keen, and broke his glass;
Clipp'd his two wings, and fix'd him on an ass:
Such was the envied pow'r of ancient bards,
When kings vouchsaf'd to crown them with rewards.

In days of old, the bards were sacred creatures,
Deem'd so exalted in their natures!
By numbers thought fit company for gods!
Lo, at the feasts of kings the minstrels sat;
Eat, sung, and mingled in the royal chat;
And scarcely did there seem a grain of odds.

Thus cried those kings of old, (delightful praise!)
‘Touch not the men of other days;
Hurt not a hair of those sweet sons of song,
Whose voices shall be heard amidst our halls,
When we, amidst of death the narrow walls,
In gloomy silence shall be stretch'd along.’

Scot-free the poets drank and ate;
They paid no taxes to the state!
Now comes a butcher, roaring ‘pay your bill;’
Now the blue-apron'd wight of beer,
And man of bread, approach and cry, ‘Look here;
Not one more morsel, not a single gill,
Shall, Master Poet, pass your piping throat,
Until you quickly pay up ev'ry groat.’
Unnatural! alas, what Gothic sounds!
Thus 'tis the rude profane a poet wounds!
At Windsor, when the monarch has been by,
How have I languish'd on the royal sty,
Where wanton'd fifty little grunting grigs!
But never had the king the grace to say,

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‘You're hungry, hungry, Peter—take away,
Take, take a couple of the prettiest pigs.’

Oft of his geese too have I heard the notes,
And, hungry, wish'd to stop their gobbling throats;
But vainly did mine eyes around them wander:
How easily the monarch might have said,
‘You don't eat roast meat often, I'm afraid;
Take, take away the fattest goose or gander.’

Kings care not if we neither drink nor carve—
This is their speech in secret, ‘Sing and starve.’
And yet our monarch has a world of books,
And daily on their backs so gorgeous looks;
So neatly bound, so richly gilt, so fine,
He fears to open them to read a line!

Since of our books a king can highly deem,
The authors surely might command esteem—
But here's the dev'l—I fear too many know it—
Some kings prefer the binder to the poet.

Yet though it never was poor Peter's fate
To get a sixpence from the man of state,
Who rather tries to keep the poets under—
Oft have I dipp'd in golden praise the pen,
Writing such handsome things about great men,
That Candour's eye-balls have been seen to wonder.
Yet had it happen'd that the bard
Had borne on high-bred folk a little hard;
Good for an evil mortals should return—
'Tis very wicked with revenge to burn.
The sun's a bright example, let me say—
Obliges the black clouds that veil his ray;
Oft makes them decent figures to behold,
And covers all their dirty rags with gold.

But let us not an idle pother keep,
And, ass-like, at a revolution bray;

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Lo, kings themselves, like cabbages, grow cheap:
Thus ev'ry dog at last will have his day—
He who this morning smil'd, at night may sorrow;
The grub to-day's a butterfly to-morrow.

ODE.

[Poor imps, we all are born, at times to groan!]

The Poet administers Comfort to the disgraced Directors.

Poor imps, we all are born, at times to groan!
Misfortune won't let Happiness alone;
Sharp as a cat for ever pleas'd to watch her,
And trying with a thousand traps to catch her.

Still must we all submit—it is our fate
To mourn at home amid this mortal state!
Yet by our folly often worse we make it.—
At disappointment frequent have I sigh'd:
‘P-x take the world!’ indignant I have cry'd—
Life is not worth the terms on which we take it.’

Then on the lot of mortals did I scowl;
And angry thus, one night, address'd an owl.

ADDRESS TO AN OWL.

‘Thou solemn bird on yonder ivy'd tow'r,
Wilt thou exchange thy nature owl with me?
Happy to take possession of thy bow'r,
I here protest I would exchange with thee.

‘When to his western bed the sun retires,
Obeys the curfew, and puts out his fires;

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When Evening, blushful harbinger of night,
Gems with the dews of health the drooping flow'r;
With cooling zephyrs fans the sober hour,
And wakes the myriads to the fading light;

‘Forth, with what happiness I pass
Amid the moist reviving grass,
To meet the tribes by Nature made,
To crawl and wing the world of shade!

‘Daughters and sons of night that creep the ground,
Blest must ye live, with such a calm around,
So unmolested, to enjoy your loves!
And lighter people, ye who spread the wing,
Now mid the moon's pale lustre sport and sing,
Now playful pierce the shadows of the groves.

‘Ye harmless nations, with averted eyes,
The sons of men your silent world despise,
Because their eyes no punch houses behold;
Because no mobs, nor fires, nor thieves appear;
Because no riots with their yells they hear;
No brothels, scenes of sallow fate unfold.
Sweet owl, this short apostrophe excuse;
And willing now to thee returns the muse.

‘O bird of wisdom, 'mid the twilight scene
Dimly I mark thy philosophic mien—
And now I see expand thy snowy wings:
To yonder elm, O happy happy fowl,
Thou rushest forth to call upon Miss Owl,
Expectant of her beau, who darkling sings.

‘Together now ye sail the dusky vale,
Now dart on prey, now mount agen the gale;
Now on the moon-clad barn or silent grove,
Your four hands fill'd with various game, ye go
(For hunger must be satisfied I trow);
And, after feasting, kiss and sing of love.

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‘To-morrow sullen must I move to town,
Shook in a wooden engine up and down,
For want, O owl, of thy soft gliding wing—
Stow'd with a gang of thieves perchance, and trulls;
Too noisy for the thickest human skulls—
Who smoke, and laugh, and roar, and swill, and sing.

‘Gladly at length I quit my wooden hive;
Fatigu'd at busy London I arrive,
Parent of sin, and nastiness, and noise:
By coach and cart, and wheelbarrow and dray,
Through motley mob I force my sighing way;
Pimps, porters, chairmen, chimney-sweepers' boys:

‘Saluted, as I pass along,
By all the various imps of song,
This crying rabbits, rabbits, wild fowl that,
Another mack'rel, salmon, oyster, sprat!

‘With such a howling ear-distracting note,
And mouth extended as a barn-door wide,
That fish and flesh forsooth may be well cried,
A man might leap into each cavern throat.

‘In Covent-Garden, at the Hummums, now
I sit, but after many a curse and vow
Never to see the madding city more;
Where barrows truckling o'er the pavements roll,
And, what is horror to a tuneful soul,
Where asses asses greeting, love-songs roar;

‘Which asses, that the Garden square adorn,
Must lark-like be the heralds of my morn.
Let others talk with wild affright
Of horrors and the shades of night;
You want not Sol's refulgent painful ray;
Night to your eyes is but a milder day.

‘Let others mock your airs that simply flow—
Teeho, teewhit, teewhit, teeho—

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But then, dear owl, 'tis sweetly simple, mind:
Avaunt the scientific squall—
I hate it—nature hates it all—
But lo! 'tis science and the ton, I find.

‘The ear with harsh chromatics must be teas'd,
Grown much too fashionable to be pleas'd.
Here could I wander 'mid the dewy glade,
On sacred silence feast, and shade:
But ah! farewell—rest calls me—'tis night's noon;
On wings of freedom as thou sweep'st the sky,
Sweet child of shadows, o'er my hamlet fly,
And kindly sooth my slumber with a tune.’

Thus out of humour I address'd the bird,
Wishing to change conditions with the fowl;
But at the cheerful morn, upon my word,
I lik'd the man-state better than the owl.

Thus anger'd at the wayward tricks of fate,
Pettish you wish your grandeur at the devil;
Yet, after cursing high and mighty state,
You wisely deem it not so huge an evil:
Contented to be men of worship still,
Pleas'd with the gifts that kings, not Heav'n, bestow;
Proud, from the height of title's star-clad hill,
To mock us poor unhonour'd grubs below.

ODE.

['Tis giv'n as gospel both in prose and rhimes]

The Poet comforteth again and again and again the noble Directors with moral Reflections, &c.

'Tis giv'n as gospel both in prose and rhimes,
That people should not be for ever blest;
Misfortune therefore must be good at times,
A salutary, though satiric guest;

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That goads to Virtue's works the rump of Sloth;
Like gout, that bites us into health so fair;
Or like the needle, while it wounds the cloth,
It puts the rag into repair.

Sigh now no more, nor let those suns, your eyes,
Be dimly gleaming through perpetual show'rs—
Let pleasure bring the beam of summer skies,
And gild the pinions of your sable hours.

Let not Grief's surge along your bosom roll,
Nor Fancy gather sorrows for the soul.

Ah! sigh no more, sweet lords, pray sigh no more!
Not all, not all your consequence is dead;
In Tot'nam-street you still preserve a pow'r,
And proudly bear an elevated head;
Where, all obedience, and with one accord,
Musicians learn to tremble at the Lord .

Of the night, who selects the music, and sometimes gives a soprano song to a bass voice, and who once ordered, in the Jubilate, the trumpet part to be executed by the German flute.

ODE.

[Life changes—now 'tis calm—now hurricane—]

The Vicissitudes of Life, wonderful!

Life changes—now 'tis calm—now hurricane—
Up, down, down, up—a very windmill's vane
Is man, poor fellow—much too like a ball;
'Tis high, 'tis low—'tis this way now, now that,
Just as its wooden master wills, the bat—
Thus majesty can bid us rise or fall.

The monarch may repent him of the deed—
His heart so soft at your dismission bleed,

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To House of Buckingham you may be call'd,
And at the queen's sweet little concerts sing;
Then how the tribes of nobles will be gall'd!
This will be soaring on the eagle's wing.

Thus to the world then be it understood,
What seems misfortune, happens for our good:
This from my rhiming store-house, or my stable,
May be elucidated by a fable.

MRS. ROBINSON's HANDKERCHIEF AND JUDGE BULLER's WIG.

A FABLE.

A Handkerchief, that long had press'd,
The snows of Laura's swelling breast,
O'er which fair scene full many a longing lover,
With panting heart, and frequent sighs,
And pretty modest leering eyes,
Had often, often been observ'd to hover—

This handkerchief to Kitty giv'n,
Was forc'd at length to leave its heav'n,
And enter a Jew clothes-man's ample bag—
O what a sad reverse, poor soul!
To sweat in such a horrid hole,
With ev'ry sort of dirty rag!

‘Pray, who are you?’ the plaintive 'kerchief cry'd,
Perceiving a rough neighbour at her side:
‘You smell as though your master was a pig—
What are you? tell me stinking creature.’—‘Ma'am,’
The hairy neighbour grave replied, ‘I am
The most tremendous great Judge Buller's wig.’

‘Indeed sir! O how chang'd our fate!
How diff'rent were we both of late!

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Now to be lodg'd in this vile place—
What will become of us at last? O dear,
Something more terrible than this, I fear,
Something that carries huge disgrace.’

‘Madam,’ rejoin'd the wig, ‘don't cry;
No cause have you indeed to sigh;
So trust for once a wig's prophetic words—
My fate is to be just the same, I find;
Still for a scarecrow's head design'd,
To frighten all the thieves—the birds.

‘But, luckier, you so chang'd will rise,
A fav'rite of ten thousand eyes:
Not burnt (as you suppos'd perhaps) to tinder;
Chang'd to the whitest paper—happy leaves,
For him, the bard who like a god conceives,
The great, th' immortal Peter Pindar.’

La, sir, then what a piece of news!
God bless, I say, God bless the Jews—
I wish my dear dear mistress did but know it:
Her hands then I shall happy touch again;
For madam always did maintain
That Mister Pindar was a charming poet.’

ODE.

[Once more I pray you, be not sad]

Still more Comfort for Directors!

Once more I pray you, be not sad;
Remember what the proverb doth declare:
'Tis better riding on a pad,
Than on a horse's back that's bare,
At Tot'nam's concert, to delight ye—
Behold, my lords, you still are mighty.

Think of your titles too—the name of lord,
What merit it proclaims of head and heart!

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It is a tradesman's handsome board,
In letters fair of gold that doth impart
To people who their mouths of wonder ope,
What goodly articles are in the shop.

Yes, as of yore, the pompous name of lord
Doth still our awe-clad admiration rule—
And comfort to the hungry doth afford—
As nods of lords are dinners for a fool.

‘I thank my God, I am not like those fellows,’
Cried the proud Pharisee, the bellows
Or trumpet of his reputation blowing—
And you in triumph also may exclaim
Proud of a peer's exalted name,
With pride of title and fair birth o'erflowing.

‘I thank my stars, I am not like the mob,
Whom Nature fabricated by the job.’

You shall, you shall return to pow'r,
And o'er the grumbling million tow'r;
Your sacred laws shall be obey'd—
Musicians to allegiance must return—
In sackcloth and in ashes mourn;
Submitting, if you will it, to be flay'd.

Their eyes so fierce, that flash'd like tin reflectors,
As though they meant to roast the grand directors,
Shall from their meteor fury fade away
Becoming mild and placid as the light
Shed by the worm, the lamp of dewy night,
Or Luna's modest melancholy ray.

Yes! to your noble hearts' delight,
With waving wands and gloves so white,
And gilt medallions blest, shall ye appear;
Smile at us mob, the many-headed beast;
And, as you seem to like a gratis feast,
Eat a few fiddlers ev'ry year.

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THE CHURCHWARDEN,

OR THE FEAST ON A CHILD.

A TALE.

[_]

The following Story, founded on a fact that happened some Years since at the Swan at Knights-bridge, is introduced to illustrate the Meaning of eating a Child, mentioned in the first Ode.

At Knightsbridge, at a tavern called the Swan,
Churchwardens, overseers, a jolly clan,
Order'd a dinner, for themselves and friends—
A very handsome dinner of the best:
Lo! to a turn, the diff'rent joints were drest—
Their lips, wild licking, ev'ry man commends.

Loud was the clang of plates, and knives, and forks;
Delightful was the sound of claret corks,
That stopp'd so close and lovingly the bottle:
Thou Savoir-vivre club, and jen' sais quoi,
Full well the voice of honest corks ye know,
Deep and deep-blushing from the gen'rous pottle.

All ear, all eye to listen and to see,
The landlord was as busy as a bee—
Yes, Larder skipp'd like harlequin so light;
In bread, beer, wine, removal swift of dishes,
Nimbly anticipating all their wishes—
Now this, to man voracious as a kite,

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Is pleasant—as the trencher-heroes hate
All obstacles that keep them from the plate,
As much as jockeys on a running horse
Curse cows or jack-asses that cross the course.

Nay, here's a solid reason too; for mind,
Bawling for things, demandeth mouth and wind:
Whatever therefore weak'neth wind and jaws,
Is hostile to the gormandizing cause.

Having well cramm'd, and swill'd, and laugh'd, and sung,
And toasted girls, and clapp'd, and roar'd, and rung,
And broken bones of tables, chairs, and glasses,
Like happy bears, in honour of their lasses,
Not wives! not one was toasted all the time—
Thus were they decent—it had been a crime,
As wives are delicate and sacred names,
Not to be mix'd indeed with wh---s and flames:

I say, when all were cramm'd unto the chin,
And ev'ry one with wine had fill'd his skin,
In came the landlord with a cherub smile:
Around to ev'ry one he lowly bow'd,
Was vastly happy—honour'd—vastly proud—
And then he bow'd again in such a style!

‘Hop'd gemmen lik'd the dinner and the wine:’
To whom the gemmen answer'd, ‘very fine!
‘A glorious dinner, Larder, to be sure.’—
To which the landlord, laden deep with bliss,
Did with his bows so humble almost kiss
The floor.

Now in an alter'd tone—a tone of gravity,
Unto the landlord full of smiles and suavity,
Did Mister Guttle the church warden call—
‘Come hither, Larder,’ said soft Mister Guttle,
With solemn voice and fox-like face, so subtle—
‘Larder, a little word or two, that's all.’

Forth ran th' obedient landlord with good will,
Thinking most nat'rally upon the bill.

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‘Landlord,’ (quoth Guttle, in a soft sly sound,
Not to be heard by any in the room,
Yet which, like claps of thunder, did confound)
‘Do you know any thing of Betty Broom?’

‘Sir?’ answer'd Larder, stamm'ring—‘Sir! what, sir?
Yes, sir, yes—yes—she liv'd with Mistress Larder;
But may I never move, nor never stir,
If but for impudence we did discard her:
No, Mister Guttle—Betty was too brassy—
We never keep a sarvant that is saucy.’

‘But, landlord—Betty says she is with child.’—
‘What's that to me?’ quoth Larder, looking wild—
‘I never kiss'd the hussey in my life,
Nor hugg'd her round the waist, nor pinch'd her cheek;
Never once put my hand upon her neck—
Lord, sir, you know that I have got a wife.

‘Lord! nothing comely to the girl belongs—
I would not touch her with a pair of tongs:
A little puling chit, as white as paste;
I'm sure that never suited with my taste.

‘But then, suppose—I only say, suppose
I had been wicked with the girl—alack,
My wife hath got the cursed'st keenest nose,
Why, zounds, she would have catch'd me in a crack;

‘Then quickly in the fire had been the fat—
Curse her! she always watch'd me like a cat.

‘Then, as I say, Bet did not hit my taste,
It was impossible to be unchaste:—
Therefore it never can be true, you see—
And Mistress Larder's full enough for me.’

‘Well,’ answer'd Guttle, ‘Man, I'll tell ye what—
Your wind and eloquence you now are wasting:

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Whether Miss Betty hit your taste or not,
There's good round proof enough that you've been tasting.

‘And, Larder, you've a wife, 'tis very true,
Perhaps a little somewhat of a shrew;
But Betty was not a bad piece of stuff.’—
‘Well, Mister Guttle, may I drop down dead,
If ever once I crept to Betty's bed!
And that, I'm sure, is swearing strong enough.’

‘But, Larder, all your swearing will not do,
If Betty swears that she's with child by you.
Now Betty came and said she'd swear at once—
But you know best—yet mind, if Betty'll swear,
And then again! should Mistress Larder hear,
The Lord have mercy, Larder, on thy sconce

‘Why, man, were this affair of Betty told her,
Not all the dev'ls in hell would hold her.

‘Then there's your modest stiff-rump'd neighbours all;
There'd be a pretty kick-up—what a squall!
You could not put your nose into a shop—
There's lofty Mistress Wick, the chandler's wife,
And Mistress Bull, the butcher's imp of strife,
With Mistress Bobbin, Salmon, Muff, and Slop,
With fifty others of such old compeers—
Zounds, what a hornet's nest about thy ears!’

From cheerful smiles, and looks, like Sol so bright,
Poor Larder fell to looks as black as night;
And now his head he scratch'd, importing guilt—
For people who are innocent indeed,
Never look down, so black, and scratch the head;
But, tipp'd with confidence, their noses tilt,
Replying with an unembarrass'd front:
Bold to the charge, and fix'd to stand the brunt.—

Truth is a tow'ring dame—divine her air;
In native bloom she walks the world with state:

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But Falsehood is a meretricious fair,
Painted and mean, and shuffling in her gait;

Dares not look up with Resolution's mien,
But sneaking hides, and hopes not to be seen;
For ever haunted by a doubt
That all the world will find her out.

Again—there's honesty in eyes,
That shrinking show when tongues tell lies—
With Larder this was verily the case;
Informers were the eyes of Larder's face.

‘Well, sir,’ said Larder, whisp'ring, hemming, haing,
Each word so heavy, like a cart-horse drawing—
‘This is a d*mn'd affair, I can't but say—
Sir, please to accept a note of twenty pound;
Contrive another farher may be found;
And, sir, here's not a halfpenny to pay.’

Thus ended the affair, by prudent treaty;
For who, alas! would wish to make a pother?
Guttle next morning went and talk'd to Betty,
When Betty swore the bantling to another.

By this ingenious mode of parish cookery, the same child may be devoured a dozen times over.