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

Dear Emp'ror, prince of poets, noble bard,
Thy brother Peter sendeth thee a card,
To say thou art an honour to the times—
Yes, Peter telleth thee, that for a king,
Indeed a most extraordinary thing,
Thou really makest very charming rhimes.

Witness thy Moukden , which we all admire;
Witness thy pretty little Ode to Tea,
Compos'd when sipping by thy Tartar fire;
Witness thy many a madrigal and glee.

Believe me, venerable, good Kien Long,
Vast is my pleasure that the Muse's song
Divinely soundeth through thy Tartar groves;
Still greater, that the first of eastern kings
Should praise in rhime the Tartar vales and springs,
And pay a tuneful tribute to the Loves.

366

Yet how it hurts my classic soul, to find
Some western kings to poetry unkind!
What though they want the skill to make a riddle,
Charade, or rebus, or conundrum;—still
Those kings might show towards them some good will,
And nobly patronize Apollo's fiddle.

But no—the note is, ‘How go sheep a score?
What, what's the price of bullock? how sells lamb?
I want a boar, a boar, I want a boar;
I want a bull, a bull, I want a ram.’
Whereas it should be this—‘I want a bard,
To cover him with honour and reward.’

Kings deem, ah me! a grunting herd of swine
Companions sweeter than the tuneful Nine;
Preferring to Fame's dome, a hog-sty's mire;
The roar of oxen to Apollo's lyre.

‘Lord! is it possible?’ I hear thee groan—
Kien Long, 'tis true as thou art on thy throne:
For souls like thine, 'tis natural to doubt it—
Macartney can inform thee all about it.

A favourite city of the emperor.

ODE II.

More Compliments to the Emperor—A Dissertation on Thrones, and Kings and Queens—A very proper Attack on the French Revolutionists —The Fate of poor Religion prophesied— Also, of his Holiness the Pope—More Lamentations on degraded Royalty.

Thou art a second Atlas, great Kien Long;
Supporting half th' unwieldy globe, so strong;
But, Lord! what pigmy souls to empire rise!
Unconscious of its glorious frame, they sleep—
Now just like mice from pyramids that peep,
Thinking a hole's a hole, where'er it lies.

367

Fortune has too much pow'r in this same world—
Things are too often topsy-turvy hurl'd!
A bug condemn'd to fly that scarce can crawl;
A maggot taken from his little nut,
(There by the great All-wise most wisely put)
To grovel 'midst the grandeur of St. Paul!

Unluckily most thrones are placed so high,
That kings can scarce their loving subjects spy,
Hopping beneath them, like so many crows;
Which subjects have in France been taking
Great liberties in ladder-making,
To get up nearer to the royal nose.

Thus wrens ere long their pigmy pow'rs will try
And, turning to the clouds their little eye,
Aim to arrest, by frequent daring flights,
Their elder brothers of the skies, the kites!

And yet I hate a fool upon a throne—
We have been happy hitherto, thank God;
How boys would burst with laughter, ev'ry one,
Were monkey-schoolmasters to hold the rod!

Yet much more mischief follows royal fools,
As realms are on a larger scale than schools—
Th' Americans provide against all this:
Which certain gentlefolk take much amiss!

And then again, the wives of glorious kings,
In generosity, and such-like things,
And temper mild, who well themselves demean,
Are for the subject a rare happy matter;
And let me say indeed, who scorn to flatter,
We Britons are most lucky in a queen.

Of humbling their superiors, folks seem fond,
And treating monarchs as so many logs;
Whereas it is in courts, as in a pond,
Some fish, some frogs.

Thus do the rebel foes of sovereigns cry,
Rending with wild disloyalty the sky.

368

‘When will the lucky day be born that brings
A bridle for the insolence of kings?
Too slowly moves, alas! the loitering hour!
When will those tyrants cease to fancy man
A fawning dog in Providence's plan,
Ordain'd to lick the blood-stain'd rod of Pow'r?’

Kings have their faults undoubtedly, and many—
The man who contradicts me, is a zany.
Some rob, some kill, some cheat, some cringe and beg;
Curst with an av'rice, some would shave an egg.
And yet, with all their sins, I drop a tear
On what I'm daily forc'd to see and hear.

Great is the change of late! such horrid scenes,
Such little rev'rence both for kings and queens!
Thus cry the Frenchmen, seldom over-nice—
‘We want no scepter'd plunderers of states;
Out with them—folly to maintain more cats
Than capable of catching mice.

‘Death to their parasites—we'll have no more
Leeches that suck the heart's blood of the poor.
Down with dukes, earls, and lords, those Pagan Josses,
False gods!—away with stars, and strings, and crosses!’

The French are very wicked, I declare;
They raise upon one's head, one's very hair;
So much those fellows majesty abuse—
Of royalty the purple robe so grand,
Which seizes the deep rev'rence of a land,
They to a malkin turn, to wipe their shoes.

‘Out with state-pickpockets!’ they cry aloud:
‘Death to the rav'nous eagles,’ cries the crowd,
‘That happy hover o'er a people's groan;
Thieves, in the plunder of an empire drest;
Flatt'ry's vile carrion flies, on kings that feast;
Rank bugs that shelter in the wood of thrones!

369

‘The dustman in his cart that hourly slaves,
Drawn by an ass the partner of his toils,
Tow'rs far superior to those titled knaves,
In coaches glitt'ring with a kingdom's spoils!’

The old sic volo, that with thund'ring sound,
Rous'd all the provinces of France around
(And if great things we may compare to small,
Just like the boatswain's whistle, that makes skip
The jovial fellows of a ship)
This great sic volo is not heard at all—

To humbler phrases chang'd by some degrees;
‘With your good leave, Messieurs’—‘Sirs, if you please.’

Yes, savage are the French to kings and quality;
Void of good manners, common hospitality—
Barb'rous, they dog like wish to pick their bones:
Make just as much of dukes as of a duck,
(Nobility has therefore shocking luck),
And dash an infant prince against the stones.
Thus butchers calmly stick a sucking pig,
And o'er a bleeding lambkin hum a jig.

Religion too is in a deep decline,
Her vot'ries treated like a herd of swine,
Rich reliques look'd upon as rotten lumber!
Who will be canoniz'd for fright'ning devils,
For bringing back lost limbs, and curing evils,
Scald heads, wry necks, and rickets beyond number,

Without a draught, a bolus, or a pill,
That of redoubted doctors foil the skill?

Religion, who in France some years ago,
Made in rich silks so wonderful a show,
So us'd with all the pride of curls to charm,
Is now, poor soul, oblig'd to beg her bread,
With scarce a cap or ribbon to her head,
Or woollen petticoat to keep her warm.

370

Ah! sinking fast, 'tis thought she may expire;
Her whips demolish'd, and extinct her fire,
Her pinchers broken, snapp'd in twain her cleaver,
That flogg'd, that burnt a sinner to salvation,
Roasting away the soul's adulteration,
And chopp'd and pinch'd him to a true believer.

No longer are her priests to be maintain'd—
Thus is that horrid beast the Dev'l unchain'd,
That roaring bull at once his triumph shows—
For, if not paid, what priests will prove their might,
Fight the good fight,
And, like staunch bull-dogs, nail him by the nose?

Death and the Dev'l, the smutty rogue, and Sin,
A pretty junto, are upon the grin;
Hoping to fill the dark infernal hole,
If all the priests refuse to help a soul—
That most important contest then is o'er;
Pull Dev'l, pull parson, will be seen no more.

Yes, at her wounded pow'r Religion faints;
Alas! no more old bones shall make new saints;
No more shall Lent, lean lady, cry her fish;
No more shall slices of the cross be courted;
Despis'd the manger that our Lord supported,
His sacred pap-spoon, and the Virgin's dish.

No absolutions, like potatoes, sold;
No purgatory-souls redeem'd by gold:
No more in cloth of gold, and red-heel'd shoes,
Bag-wig and sword, a mob the Saviour views—
Sold no certificates of good behaviour,
To show the Lord, the Virgin, and that Saviour.

371

No more shall Miracle obtain applause,
Laugh at old Time, and break Dame Nature's laws;
No more dead herrings, fill'd with life and motion,
Leap from the frying-pan, and swim the ocean.

Soon may this wicked spirit steal to Rome,
And poison ev'ry sacred dome;
Reliques be kick'd and mock'd by many a giber—
The pontiff to the very workhouse brought,
Or, what could never have been thought,
Plump'd with his triple crown into the Tiber:

There may we view him flound'ring wild about,
With not a saint he dubb'd to pull him out:

The fair chaste quills, from angel wings procur'd,
Be turn'd to uses not to be endur'd;
To villain pens, instead of crow-quills cut,
To draw lew'd figures and deliver smut:

Melted the church's sacred plate to mugs,
To candlesticks, to punch-ladles, and jugs;

To porringers the pipes of sacred tunes,
And silver Christs to canisters and spoons.

Phials that held of saints the suffering sighs,
Seen by the dimmest of believing eyes,
Lo, to the meanest offices shall sink—
Hold aquafortis, or reviling ink!

The Virgin's gowns and garters, stockings, shoes,
Sold to her enemies, perhaps, the Jews—
Her paint, curls, caps, hoop, gauzes, muslin, lace,
Sold to trick harlots for a rogue's embrace!

372

Now to disloyal mongrels we return.
That bark at kings, and for confusion burn.

How have our mighty monarchs been brought down!
Trod in the dust, like some old wig, the crown!
The wearers—some confin'd in jails so dread;
Some shot—some poison'd with as much sang froid,
As though the mob had merely been employ'd
To knock a thieving polecat on the head.

In birth the public sees no kind of merit!
Think of the present equalizing spirit!
Amidst the populace how rank it springs!
Nay, from the palaces the Virtues fly,
While boldly entering from their beastly stye,
The vulgar passions rush to pig with kings!

Once a year this fine mummery is exhibited in France, and in other Romish countries.

In some part of Russia, narrow slips of paper, in form of a ribbon, consecrated by the bishop, are sold for about three-pence a-piece, and bound about the heads of dying people. They are certificates of their good behaviour. The inscription on each is as follows:—‘To old God Almighty, to young God Almighty, and young God Almighty's mamma—this is to certify, that the bearer hereof died a good Christian,’

Of the organs.

ODE III.

The Poet sweetly reproveth the Emperor for neglecting to turn a penny in an honest Way, and demonstrateth the Inconveniency of Generosity —proving that a Mind on a broad Scale may be productive of narrow Circumstances.

Great king, thou never educatest swine.
Nor takest goslins under thy tuition;
Nor boardest by the week thy neighbour's kine,
Like Pharaoh's—that is, in a lean condition.

Nor dost thou cut down palaces to pens,
Nor sendest unto market cocks and hens;
Nor to a butcher sellest pork and beef:
Nor wool nor egg merchant, O king, art thou;
Nor dost thou watch the girl who milks the cow,
For fear the girl might sip, and prove a thief;

373

Nor settest traps to save thy fowls and eggs,
And catch thy loyal subjects by the legs.—

Nor dost thou go a shopping, mighty king;
I know that thou despisest such a thing;
Yes, to expose such meanness thou art loath—
Thou scorn'st to pride thyself on buying cheap,
And for some trifle a huge pother keep,
An ounce of blackguard , or a yard of cloth.

Nor dost thou (which some people may deem strange)
Send pages with a halfpenny for change;
Nor dost thou (which would be a crying sin)
Cheat of his dues the parson of Pe-kin.

Thy mind was form'd upon an ampler scale:
Each thought is generosity—a whale:
Not a poor sprat to dunghills to be hurl'd—
Thy soul a dome illum'd by Grandeur's rays,
That o'er thy mighty empire casts a blaze;
A beacon to inform a world.

But, ah! Kien Long, thou never wilt be rich,
If generosity thy heart bewitch:
What says Œconomy? ‘Let subjects groan—
Let Misery's howl be music to thine ear—
Yes, let the widow's and the orphan's tear
Fall printless on thy heart as on a stone.’

The souls of many kings are vulgar entries,
With not a rushlight 'midst the dismal winding;
A long, dark, dangerous, dreary way, past finding—
Hypocrisy and Meanness the two sentries.

Ambition, that on riches casts its eyes,
Mounts on the tempest of a people's sighs!
O emp'ror, Generosity's a fool—
She wants advice from saving Wisdom's school.

374

Look at a smiling field of grass:
Nothing can eat it out, nor horse, nor ass,
Provided that you put, to spare the feast,
A padlock on the mouth of ev'ry beast.
Thus, muzzle but thy palace now and then,
Thou wilt be wealthy among scepter'd men.

Invite not a whole million to thine hunt:
Thy purse with such a heavy weight would grunt.
In England, when a king a deer unharbours,
The sport a half a dozen butchers share;
Of smutty chimney-sweeps perchaunce a pair;
With probably a brace or two of barbers.

What though 'tis not quite royal—still we boast
Of gaining glorious fun with little cost.
The pocket is a very serious matter—
Small beer allayeth thirst—nay, simple water.

The splendor of a chase, or feast, or ball,
Though strong, are passing, momentary rays—
The lustre of a liltle hour; that's all—
While guineas with eternal splendor blaze.

A coarse snuff, so emphatically called.

This is the number of the emperor's attendants, in general, at a hunt.

ODE IV.

Peter breaketh out into a strange Rhapsody, so unlike Peter, who christeneth himself the Poet of the People—He adviseth the Emperor to Actions never practised by Kings!—Is it, or is it not, one continued Vein of happy Irony?

Give nothing from thy privy purse away,
I say—
Nay, should thy coffers and thy bags run o'er,
Neglect or pension Merit on the poor.

375

Give not to hospitals—thy name's enough:
To death-face Famine, not a pinch of snuff—
On wealth thy quarry, keep a falcon-view,
And from thy very children steal their due.

Shouldst thou, in hunts, be tumbled from thy horse,
Unlucky, 'midst some river's rapid course;
Though sharp between thyself and Death the strife,
Give not the page a sous that saves thy life.

Should love allure thee to some fair-one's arms,
Who yields thee all the luxury of charms,
And deluges thy panting heart with blisses;
Take not a sixpence from thy groaning chest,
To buy a ribband for the fragrant breast
That swell'd with all its ardour to thy kisses.

Buy not a garland for her flowing hair;
Buy not of mittins, or of gloves, a pair,
To shield her hands from frost, or summer's ray;
Buy not a bonnet to defend her face,
Nor 'kerchief to protect each snowy grace,
And deck her on some rural holiday.
But suffer her in homely geer to pine,
In simple elegance where others shine.

Thou probably mayst answer, with a groan,
‘What! give a vile contagion to the throne!
Perdition catch the wealth, in heaps that lies,
Whilst trodden merit lifts her asking eyes.

‘That calf, shall garish Ostentation grin,
Deck'd by the sweat of Labour's sun-burnt skin,
Poor cart-horse, envied ev'n his very oats?
Heav'ns! shall this mummer Ostentation cry,
Roast in the sun, thou mob, in ashes lie;
Mine be the guineas, slave, and thine the groats.

‘Mine be the luxury of wine and oil,
Thine that I condescend to drink thy toil.’
Ah! say'st thou thus?—dares honour this high pitch?
Then, noble emp'ror, thou wilt ne'er be rich.

376

Gold should not gather in a subject's chest—
The crew grows mutinous—it cannot rest;
It talketh of equality, indeed!
No, let the monarch's bags and coffers hold
The flatt'ring, mighty, nay, all-mighty gold;
On this shall brawny Pow'r his sinews feed;

Jove's eagle near the throne, with eye of fire,
The vengeance-bearer of the royal ire!
Enrich the realm, Subordination dies—
Wealth gives a wing that dashes at the skies.

Blush not, though up to neck, to nose, in gold,
To let thy fav'rite mandarine be told,
‘The emp'ror pants for money—hunt about:’
And should thy minister, with impious breath,
Say, ‘Sire, we've squeezed the people nigh to death,’
Off with the villain's head, or kick him out.

'Tis pleasant to look down upon the hovel,
And count the royal treasure with a shovel!
Pleasant to mark the whites of wishing eyes,
And hear of Poverty the fruitless sighs!
Grand, on their knees to see the million cow'r;
Pale, starv'd submsssion is the feast of pow'r.

Pr'ythee, to Europe come, Kien Long, with speed:
We'll give thee much instruction on this head;
Nay, some examples also shall be brought,
Which beats a cold dry precept all to nought.
Precept's a pigmy, hectic, weak, and slight;
Example is a giant in his might.
Then, prythee, to our Europe haste to stare;
Lo, Europe shall produce thee such a pair!
A pair! to whom lean Av'rice is a fool,
And means to take a lesson from their school.

377

ODE V.

Peter giveth an Account of the Expedition of Lord Macartney, and, contrary to the Tenour of the preceding Ode, absolutely recommendeth Generosity to the Emperor.

Kien Long, our great great people, and 'Squire Pitt,
Fam'd through the universe for saving wit,
Have heard uncommon tales about thy wealth;
And now a vessel have they fitted out,
Making for good Kien Long a monstrous rout,
To trade, and beg, and ask about his health.

This to my simple and unconnying mind,
Seems œconomical and very kind!
And now, great Emperor of China, say,
What handsome things hast thou to give away?

Accept a proverb out of Wisdom's schools
‘Barbers first learn to shave, by shaving fools.’
Pitt shav'd our faces first, and made us grin—
Next the poor French—and now the hopeful lad,
Ambitious of the honour, seemeth mad
To try this razor's edge upon thy chin.

Thee as a generous prince we all regard;
For ev'ry present, lo, returning double—
'Tis therefore thought that thou wilt well reward
The ship and Lord Macartney for their trouble.

And now to George and Charlotte what the presents?
No humming-birds, we beg—no owls, no pheasants;

378

Such gifts will put the palace in a sweat—
For God's sake send us nothing that can eat.
‘What gifts, I wonder, will thy king and queen
Send to Kien Long?’ thou cry'st.—Not much I ween;
They can't afford it; they are very poor—
And though they shine in so sublime a station,
They are the poorest people in the nation,
So wide of charity their neat trap-door !!!

Our king may send a dozen cocks and hens;
Perhaps a pig or two of his own breeding;
Perhaps a pair of turkeys from his pens;
Perhaps a duck of his own feeding—

Or possibly a half a dozen geese,
Worth probably a half a crown a-piece;
And that he probably may deem enough—
Her gracious majesty may condescend
Her precious compliments to send,
Tack'd to a pound or two of snuff:

The history of Strelitz too, perhaps;
A place that cuts a figure in the maps.

Most mighty emp'ror, be not thou afraid
That we shall Generosity upbraid:
Send heaps of things—poh! never heed the measure—
If palaces won't hold the precious things,
Behold, the best of queens and eke of kings
Will build them barns to hold the treasure.

I know thy delicacy's such,
Thou fanciest thou canst send too much—
But as I know the great ones of our isle,
The very thought indeed would make them smile.

379

Lord! couldst thou send the Chinese empire o'er,
So hungry, we should gape for more:
Yes, couldst thou pack the Chinese empire up,
We'd make no more on't than a China cup;
Ev'n then my Lady Schwellenberg would bawl,
‘Gote dem de shabby fella—vat, dis all?’

Whales very rarely make a hearty meal—
Thus Princes an eternal hunger feel;
Moreover, fond of good things gratis;
Whose stomach's motto should be, nunquam satis.

Then load away with rarities the ship,
And let us cry, ‘She made a handsome trip’—
But mind, no humming-birds, apes, owls, mackaws;
The dev'l take presents that can wag their jaws.

Reader, this expression is uncommonly beautiful. —The most secret charities are generally the largest, and most acceptable to God.