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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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
383
ELEGY TO THE FLEAS OF TENERIFFE.
Written in the Year 1768, at Santa Cruz, in Company with a Son of the late Admiral Boscawen, at the House of Mr. Mackerrick, a Merchant of that Place.
Ye hopping natives of a hard, hard bed,
Whose bones, perchaunce, may ache as well as ours,
O let us rest in peace the weary head,
This night—the first we ventur'd to your bow'rs.
Whose bones, perchaunce, may ache as well as ours,
O let us rest in peace the weary head,
This night—the first we ventur'd to your bow'rs.
Thick as a flock of starlings on our skins,
Ye turn at once to brown, the lily's white;
Ye stab us also, like so many pins—
Sleep swears he can't come near us whilst ye bite.
Ye turn at once to brown, the lily's white;
Ye stab us also, like so many pins—
Sleep swears he can't come near us whilst ye bite.
In vain we preach—in vain the candle's ray
Broad flashes on the imps, for blood that itch—
In vain we brush the busy hosts away;
Fearless on other parts their thousands pitch.
Broad flashes on the imps, for blood that itch—
In vain we brush the busy hosts away;
Fearless on other parts their thousands pitch.
And now I hear a hungry varlet cry,
‘Eat hearty, fleas—they're some outlandish men—
Fat stuff—no Spaniards all so lean and dry—
Such charming ven'son ne'er may come agen.’
‘Eat hearty, fleas—they're some outlandish men—
Fat stuff—no Spaniards all so lean and dry—
Such charming ven'son ne'er may come agen.’
How shall we meet the morn?—With shameful eyes!
With nibbled hands, and eke with nibbled faces,
Just like two turkey-eggs, we speckled rise,
Scorn'd by the Loves, and mock'd by all the Graces.
With nibbled hands, and eke with nibbled faces,
Just like two turkey-eggs, we speckled rise,
Scorn'd by the Loves, and mock'd by all the Graces.
384
What will the stately nymph, Joanna
, say?
How will the beauteous Catherina stare!
‘Away, ye nasty Britons—foh! away,’
In sounds of horror will exclaim the fair.
How will the beauteous Catherina stare!
‘Away, ye nasty Britons—foh! away,’
In sounds of horror will exclaim the fair.
What though we tell them 'twas Mackerrick's
bed?
What though we swear 'twere all Mackerrick's fleas?
Disgusted will the virgins turn the head;
No more we kiss their fingers on our knees.
What though we swear 'twere all Mackerrick's fleas?
Disgusted will the virgins turn the head;
No more we kiss their fingers on our knees.
No more our groaning verses greet their hand;
No more they listen to our panting prose;
No more beneath their window shall we stand,
And serenade their beauties to repose.
No more they listen to our panting prose;
No more beneath their window shall we stand,
And serenade their beauties to repose.
The conversationi
meet their end;
The love-inspir'd fandango warms no more!
The laugh, the nod, the whisper, will offend;
The leer, the squint, the squeezes, all be o'er.
The love-inspir'd fandango warms no more!
The laugh, the nod, the whisper, will offend;
The leer, the squint, the squeezes, all be o'er.
But, O ye ruthless hosts, an Arab train,
Ye daring light troops of that roving race,
Know ye the strangers whom with blood ye stain?
Know ye the voyagers ye thus disgrace?
Ye daring light troops of that roving race,
Know ye the strangers whom with blood ye stain?
Know ye the voyagers ye thus disgrace?
One is a doctor, of redoubted skill,
A Briton born, that dauntless deals in death;
Who to the Western Ind proceeds to kill,
And, probably, of thousands stop the breath:
A Briton born, that dauntless deals in death;
Who to the Western Ind proceeds to kill,
And, probably, of thousands stop the breath:
A bard, whose wing of thought, and verse of fire,
Shall bid with wonder all Parnassus start;
A bard, whose converse monarchs shall admire,
And, happy, learn his lofty odes by heart
Shall bid with wonder all Parnassus start;
A bard, whose converse monarchs shall admire,
And, happy, learn his lofty odes by heart
385
The other, lo, a pupil rare of Mars,
A youth who kindles with a father's flame;
Boscawen call'd, who fought a kingdom's wars,
And gave to Immortality a name.
A youth who kindles with a father's flame;
Boscawen call'd, who fought a kingdom's wars,
And gave to Immortality a name.
Lo, such are we, freebooters, whom ye bite!
Such is our British quality, O fleas!—
Then spare our tender skins this one, one night—
To-morrow eat Mackerrick, if ye please
Such is our British quality, O fleas!—
Then spare our tender skins this one, one night—
To-morrow eat Mackerrick, if ye please
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |