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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| II. | ODE II. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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.
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!
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.
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, 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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
‘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?’
Rending with wild disloyalty the sky.
368
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.
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.
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!’
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.
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!
‘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!’
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—
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.’
‘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.
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,
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?
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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:
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:
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 candlesticks, to punch-ladles, and jugs;
To porringers the pipes
of sacred tunes,
And silver Christs to canisters and spoons.
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!
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!
Now to disloyal mongrels we return.
That bark at kings, and for confusion burn.
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
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.
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!
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!
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,’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |