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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
Pindar, Peter (1738-1819)

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VOL. I.
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VOL. II.
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SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS.
  
SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS.
  
THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE.
  
LORD B. AND THE EUNUCH.
  
TO THE ACADEMICIANS.
  
ODE TO THE DEVIL.
  
THE TENDER HUSBAND.
  
THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY.
  
AN ODE TO EIGHT CATS,
  
SONG TO DELIA.
  
SIR J. BANKS AND THE THIEFTAKERS.
  
SOLOMON AND THE MOUSETRAP.
  
PETITION TO TIME IN FAVOUR OF THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.
  
ŒCONOMY.
  
THE JEWESS AND HER SON.
  
THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH AND THE MOB.
  
ODE TO A DISTRESSED BEAUTY.
  
THE GENTLEMAN AND HIS WIFE.
  
THE PARSON-DEALER.
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BIENSEANCE.
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THE TRIUMPH OF ISIS,
  
[section]
  
A SERIOUS REFLECTION.
  
ODE TO PATIENCE.
  
TO A NEST OF LORDS.
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EXPOSTULATORY ODES TO A GREAT DUKE AND A LITTLE LORD.
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A BENEVOLENT EPISTLE TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ALIAS MASTER JOHN NICHOLS, PRINTER, Common-Councilman of Farringdon Ward, And Censor General of Literature:
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A ROWLAND FOR AN OLIVER, OR A POETICAL ANSWER TO THE BENEVOLENT EPISTLE OF MR. PETER PINDAR.
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ADVICE TO THE FUTURE LAUREAT,
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COMPLIMENTARY EPISTLE TO JAMES BRUCE, ESQ. The Abyssinian Traveller.
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THE RIGHTS OF KINGS,
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ODES TO MR. PAINE, AUTHOR OF ‘RIGHTS OF MAN;’
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THE REMONSTRANCE; TO WHICH IS ADDED AN ODE TO MY ASS ALSO THE MAGPIE AND ROBIN, A TALE; AN APOLOGY FOR KINGS; AND AN ADDRESS TO MY PAMPHLET.
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MORE MONEY!
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ODES OF IMPORTANCE, &c.
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THE TEARS OF ST. MARGARET;
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A PAIR OF LYRIC EPISTLES TO LORD MACARTNEY AND HIS SHIP.
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ODES TO KIEN LONG, The present Emperor of China;
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A POETICAL, SERIOUS, AND POSSIBLY IMPERTINENT, EPISTLE TO THE POPE.
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PATHETIC ODES.
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VOL. III.
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VOL. IV.

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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.
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