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] |  |
Ye friends to Justice Gibbet, Justice Jail,
And Justice Cart's slow-moving tail,
Accept the bard's sincere congratulation—
Ye glorious imps, of thief-suppressing spirit,
Elected, for your most heroic merit,
The guardians of the rulers of the nation.
And Justice Cart's slow-moving tail,
Accept the bard's sincere congratulation—
Ye glorious imps, of thief-suppressing spirit,
Elected, for your most heroic merit,
The guardians of the rulers of the nation.
387
When Blood, that enterprising chap,
Attempted only on the crown a rape,
Pale Horror rais'd her hands, and roll'd her eyes—
But should some knave, with fingers most unclean,
Attempt to steal away our king and queen,
How would the empire in disorder rise!
Attempted only on the crown a rape,
Pale Horror rais'd her hands, and roll'd her eyes—
But should some knave, with fingers most unclean,
Attempt to steal away our king and queen,
How would the empire in disorder rise!
Just like the nations of the honied hive,
Who, if they lose their sov'reign, never thrive.
Who, if they lose their sov'reign, never thrive.
At midnight, lo, some knave might steal so sly,
In silence, on the royal sleepy eye,
And, giving to his sacrilege a loose,
Bear off the mighty monarch on his back,
Just as sly Reynard, in his night attack,
Bears from the farmer's yard a gentle goose.
In silence, on the royal sleepy eye,
And, giving to his sacrilege a loose,
Bear off the mighty monarch on his back,
Just as sly Reynard, in his night attack,
Bears from the farmer's yard a gentle goose.
Ye glorious thief-takers, O watch the pair;
We cannot such a precious couple spare—
O, cat-like, guard the door against Tom Paine!
Tom Paine's an artful and rebellious dog,
Swears that a sacred throne is but a log,
And monarchs too expensive to maintain.
We cannot such a precious couple spare—
O, cat-like, guard the door against Tom Paine!
Tom Paine's an artful and rebellious dog,
Swears that a sacred throne is but a log,
And monarchs too expensive to maintain.
I know their majesties are in a fright;
I know they very badly sleep at night—
Tom Paine's indeed a most terrific word;
A name of fear, that sounds in ev'ry wind,
A goblin damn'd, that haunts the royal mind;
Of Damocles, the hair-suspended sword.
I know they very badly sleep at night—
Tom Paine's indeed a most terrific word;
A name of fear, that sounds in ev'ry wind,
A goblin damn'd, that haunts the royal mind;
Of Damocles, the hair-suspended sword.
Why should our glorious sov'reigns be unblest?
Why by a paltry subject be distrest?
Is there no poison for Tom Paine?—alas!
Is there no halter for this knave of knaves?
Audacious fellow! lo, the crown he braves,
And calls the kingdom a poor burden'd ass.
Why by a paltry subject be distrest?
Is there no poison for Tom Paine?—alas!
Is there no halter for this knave of knaves?
Audacious fellow! lo, the crown he braves,
And calls the kingdom a poor burden'd ass.
For this poor burden'd ass, he swears he feels,
And bids him lift, a regicide, his heels.
And bids him lift, a regicide, his heels.
What a bright thought in George and Charlotte,
Who, to escape each wicked varlet,
And disappoint Tom Paine's disloyal crew,
Fix'd on the brave Macmanus, Townsend, Jealous,
Delightful company, delicious fellows,
To point out, ev'ry minute, who is who!
Who, to escape each wicked varlet,
388
Fix'd on the brave Macmanus, Townsend, Jealous,
Delightful company, delicious fellows,
To point out, ev'ry minute, who is who!
To hustle from before their noble graces,
Rascals with ill-looking designing faces,
Where treason, murder, and sedition dwell;
To give the life of ev'ry Newgate wretch;
To say who next the fatal cord shall stretch—
The sweet historians of the pensive cell.
Rascals with ill-looking designing faces,
Where treason, murder, and sedition dwell;
To give the life of ev'ry Newgate wretch;
To say who next the fatal cord shall stretch—
The sweet historians of the pensive cell.
O with what joy felonious acts ye view!
How pleas'd, a thief or highwayman to hunt!
Blest as Cornwallis Tippoo to pursue;
Blest as old Purs'ram Bhow, and Hurry Punt!
How pleas'd, a thief or highwayman to hunt!
Blest as Cornwallis Tippoo to pursue;
Blest as old Purs'ram Bhow, and Hurry Punt!
How itch your fingers to entrap a thief!
How nimbly you pursue him!—with what soul
Track him from haunt to haunt, to mercy deaf,
And drag at last the felon from his hole!
How nimbly you pursue him!—with what soul
Track him from haunt to haunt, to mercy deaf,
And drag at last the felon from his hole!
Thus when a chamber-maid a flea espies,
How beats her heart! what lightnings fill her eyes!
To seize him, lo, her twinkling fingers spread,
And stop his travels through the realm of bed.
How beats her heart! what lightnings fill her eyes!
To seize him, lo, her twinkling fingers spread,
And stop his travels through the realm of bed.
He hops—the eager damsel marks the jump;
Now sudden falls in thunder on his rump—
She misses—off hops bloodsucker again:
The nymph with wild alacrity pursues;
Now loses sight of him, and now gets views,
Whilst all her trembling nerves with ardour strain.
Now sudden falls in thunder on his rump—
She misses—off hops bloodsucker again:
The nymph with wild alacrity pursues;
Now loses sight of him, and now gets views,
Whilst all her trembling nerves with ardour strain.
Now fairly tir'd, with melancholy face,
Poor sighing Susan quits th' important chase:—
Once more resolv'd, she brightens up her wits,
And, furious, to her lovely fingers spits—
Thrice happy thought! yet, not to flatter,
'Tis not the cleanliest trick in nature.
Poor sighing Susan quits th' important chase:—
Once more resolv'd, she brightens up her wits,
And, furious, to her lovely fingers spits—
Thrice happy thought! yet, not to flatter,
'Tis not the cleanliest trick in nature.
Now in the blanket deep she sees him hide,
Who, winking, fancieth Susan cannot see;
Now Susan drags him forth, with victor pride,
The culprit crusheth; and thus falls the flea!
Who, winking, fancieth Susan cannot see;
389
The culprit crusheth; and thus falls the flea!
What pity 'tis for this important nation,
The princes all have had their education!
What pounds on Gottingen were thrown away!
How had ye moraliz'd their youngling hearts!
How had ye giv'n an insight of the arts,
So necessary, sirs, for sov'reign sway!
The princes all have had their education!
What pounds on Gottingen were thrown away!
How had ye moraliz'd their youngling hearts!
How had ye giv'n an insight of the arts,
So necessary, sirs, for sov'reign sway!
Cunning's a pretty monitor for kings;
She teacheth most extraordinary things;
She keepeth subjects in their proper sphere;
She brings that fool, the million, tame to hand,
To dance, to kneel, to prostrate at command—
A kingdom is a monarch's dancing bear.
By means of this same humble capering beast,
What royal showmen fill their fobs, and feast.
She teacheth most extraordinary things;
She keepeth subjects in their proper sphere;
She brings that fool, the million, tame to hand,
To dance, to kneel, to prostrate at command—
A kingdom is a monarch's dancing bear.
By means of this same humble capering beast,
What royal showmen fill their fobs, and feast.
O tell the world's great masters, not to spare—
A subject's murmur is beneath their care:
When well accustomed to the busy thong,
Flogging's a matter of mere sport—a song.
A subject's murmur is beneath their care:
When well accustomed to the busy thong,
Flogging's a matter of mere sport—a song.
All know the tale of Betty and the eel—
‘You cruel b---h (a man was heard to say)
To serve poor creatures in that horrid way!’
‘Lord, sir,’ quoth Betty, turning on her heel,
‘The eels are us'd to it!’—so saying,
And humming ça ira, continued flaying.
‘You cruel b---h (a man was heard to say)
To serve poor creatures in that horrid way!’
‘Lord, sir,’ quoth Betty, turning on her heel,
‘The eels are us'd to it!’—so saying,
And humming ça ira, continued flaying.
O how I envy you each happy name!
Time shall not eat the mountain of your fame;
For thus myself your epitaph shall write,
And dare the vile old stone-eater to bite.
Time shall not eat the mountain of your fame;
For thus myself your epitaph shall write,
And dare the vile old stone-eater to bite.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |