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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ODE.
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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.
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!
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.
What merit it proclaims of head and heart!
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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.
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.
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.’
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.
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.
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.
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |