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] |  |
While France, for freedom mad, invades thy rights,
And pours her millions o'er the world, like mites;
Knocks the poor growling German o'er the snout,
And threatens hard the man of cheese and grout;
Gives poor Sardinia's monarch a black eye,
And makes the Nimrod King of Naples cry;
What's worse too, threaten poor Loretto's shrine,
Where the good Virgin goes each day so fine ,
Threatens to tear the muslin from her head,
And put the cap of flannel in its stead;
Where is th' Almighty's man, the church's hope,
Prince of salvation, Peter's heir, the pope?
O thou, the true descendant of Saint Peter,
In very anger, lo, I pen this metre!
There was a time when popes behav'd with spirit—
But nought, save indolence, dost thou inherit.
Go, ope thy churches, convents, all thy chapels,
Since atheism with the true religion grapples;
Think of thy ancestors so great of yore,
And bid thy noble bull as usual roar;
They whose stern looks could make an emp'ror cow'r,
And kings like school-boys shudder at their pow'r.
Most dangerous are the times—I scorn to flatter—
Then ope thy cataracts of holy water;
Gather thy crucifixes, wood, brass, stones;
Bid the dark catacombs disgorge their bones;
Create new regiments of saints for fight;
And chase the gathering gloom of Pagan night.
See France against her rightful lord rebel!
And see! her Satan banish'd from his hell!
Blind wretch! now justly suff'ring for her evil!
For what are states, without a king and devil?
A pair so sweetly suited to control!
Th' insurgent body, one; and one, the soul.
To thee (thy slaves) the miracles belong;
As music waits on Lady Mary's tongue,
Humility on K---, void of art—
As melting mercy hangs on B---'s heart.
If marvels by thine ancestors were done,
Why not perform'd, in God's name, by the son?
As Becket, that good saint, sublimely rode,
Thoughtless of insult, through the town of Strode,
What did the mob?—Attack'd his horse's rump,
And cut the tail so flowing, to the stump:
What does the saint?—Quoth he, ‘For this vile trick,
The town of Strode shall heartily be sick.
And lo, by pow'r divine a curse prevails!
The babes of Strode are born with horses' tails!
And pours her millions o'er the world, like mites;
Knocks the poor growling German o'er the snout,
And threatens hard the man of cheese and grout;
Gives poor Sardinia's monarch a black eye,
And makes the Nimrod King of Naples cry;
What's worse too, threaten poor Loretto's shrine,
Where the good Virgin goes each day so fine ,
Threatens to tear the muslin from her head,
And put the cap of flannel in its stead;
Where is th' Almighty's man, the church's hope,
Prince of salvation, Peter's heir, the pope?
O thou, the true descendant of Saint Peter,
In very anger, lo, I pen this metre!
406
But nought, save indolence, dost thou inherit.
Go, ope thy churches, convents, all thy chapels,
Since atheism with the true religion grapples;
Think of thy ancestors so great of yore,
And bid thy noble bull as usual roar;
They whose stern looks could make an emp'ror cow'r,
And kings like school-boys shudder at their pow'r.
Most dangerous are the times—I scorn to flatter—
Then ope thy cataracts of holy water;
Gather thy crucifixes, wood, brass, stones;
Bid the dark catacombs disgorge their bones;
Create new regiments of saints for fight;
And chase the gathering gloom of Pagan night.
See France against her rightful lord rebel!
And see! her Satan banish'd from his hell!
Blind wretch! now justly suff'ring for her evil!
For what are states, without a king and devil?
A pair so sweetly suited to control!
Th' insurgent body, one; and one, the soul.
To thee (thy slaves) the miracles belong;
As music waits on Lady Mary's tongue,
Humility on K---, void of art—
As melting mercy hangs on B---'s heart.
If marvels by thine ancestors were done,
Why not perform'd, in God's name, by the son?
As Becket, that good saint, sublimely rode,
Thoughtless of insult, through the town of Strode,
What did the mob?—Attack'd his horse's rump,
And cut the tail so flowing, to the stump:
What does the saint?—Quoth he, ‘For this vile trick,
The town of Strode shall heartily be sick.
And lo, by pow'r divine a curse prevails!
The babes of Strode are born with horses' tails!
407
Lodg'd in the talons of a famish'd kite,
And just about to bid the world good night,
A gentle goslin on Saint Thomas call'd!
At once the feather'd tyrant look'd appall'd;
Sudden his iron claw grew nerveless, loose,
And dropp'd the sweet believing babe of goose.
And just about to bid the world good night,
A gentle goslin on Saint Thomas call'd!
At once the feather'd tyrant look'd appall'd;
Sudden his iron claw grew nerveless, loose,
And dropp'd the sweet believing babe of goose.
Such was the pow'r of saints, tho' dead and rotten,
By thee (one verily would think) forgotten:
Then, prithee, do at once thy best endeavour,
As all the saints are wonderful as ever.
Saint Dunstan can'd the Devil, the story goes,
And pinch'd with red-hot tongs the imp's black nose;
In vain he swore, and roar'd, and danc'd about—
Sore was his back, and roasted was his snout.
The pow'r he boasted, to his bones are giv'n:
Such is the gift of saints, when lodg'd in heav'n.
By thee (one verily would think) forgotten:
Then, prithee, do at once thy best endeavour,
As all the saints are wonderful as ever.
Saint Dunstan can'd the Devil, the story goes,
And pinch'd with red-hot tongs the imp's black nose;
In vain he swore, and roar'd, and danc'd about—
Sore was his back, and roasted was his snout.
The pow'r he boasted, to his bones are giv'n:
Such is the gift of saints, when lodg'd in heav'n.
Hear with what blasphemy this France behaves!
‘Rome, I despise thee: all thy popes are knaves;
Thy cardinals and priests the earth encumber—
Avaunt the saints, and all such holy lumber!
Chop off their heads; away the legs and toes:
Away the wonder-working tooth and nose:
Away the wonder-working eyes and tears,
The vile imposture of a thousand years!
Calves' heads, pigs' pettitoes, perform as well,
Raise from the dead, and plagues and devils expel.
Saint Genevieve no longer is divine—
The wise Parisians mock her worm-gnaw'd shrine;
Whose coffin planks that could such awe inspire,
May go to light the kitchen-wench's fire.
Saint Jail, Saint Whip, Saint Guillotine, Saint Rope,
Possess (we think) more virtue than the pope.
My wool-comber, my saddler, and my hatter
No more Saint Blaize, Saint James, Saint Saviour flatter:
My carpenter, my farrier, and my furrier,
My fishmonger, my butcher, baker, currier,
And eke a hundred trades besides, no more
Bow to those marvel-mongers, and adore .
Hang me,’ the barber cries, ‘if I'm the fool
To trim for nought the Virgin Mary's poll!’
‘Burn me,’ cries Crispin, ‘if I don't refuse
To find the gentlewoman in her shoes!’
‘Curse me,’ the mercer cries, ‘if I give gowns,
To be the laughing-stock of all our towns!’
‘Damn me,’ the hosier roars, ‘if 'tis not shocking,
That I should give the woman's legs a stocking!
‘And why,’ the linen man exclaims, ‘a pox,
Should I, forsooth, be forc'd to find her smocks?
No more shall bumpkins near the altar place
Fair veal and mutton, for th' Almighty's grace;
Grace to increase the loves of bulls and rams,
And make more families of calves and lambs;
No more shall capons too for grace be swapp'd,
By priests ador'd, and in a twinkling snapp'd.
My bumpkins, once such fools, think wiser now,
That God without their aid can bless the cow,
With due fertility the poultry keep,
And kindle love sufficient for the sheep.
On their past folly with amaze they stare,
And mock the solemn mummery of pray'r;
No more on Anthony's once hallow'd feast,
The horse and ass shall travel to be blest;
No more shall Hodge's prong and shovel start,
Boot, saddle, bridle, wheelbarrow, and cart;
No more in Lent shall wiser Frenchmen starve,
While God affords them a good fowl to carve.
Away with fasts—a fool could only hatch 'em—
Frenchmen, eat fowls, wherever you can catch 'em.
Let not the fear of hell your jaws control—
A capon, trust me, never damn'd a soul.
Heav'n kindly sends to man the things man chooses;
And he's an impious blockhead who refuses.
Melt all the bells to cannon with their grace;
And, 'stead of demons, let them Austrians chase.
Away with relics, holy water, oils,
At which Credulity herself recoils!
Lo, Kellerman's and Custine's gun-clad pow'r
Will do more wonders with their iron show'r,
Than all the saints and crosses of the nation,
Since saints and crosses grew a foolish fashion.
Let crucibles and crucifixes join,
And silver saints perform their feats in coin;
Make a good rubber of the Virgin's wig—
Out with her ear-rings, and the dame unrig;
Sell off her gowns and petticoats of gold!
A piece of timber need not fear the cold.
Out with the priests, to lust's wild phrensy fed,
Who put the bridegroom and the bride to bed;
One eye to Heav'n with sanctity applied,
The other leering on the blushful bride;
Who loads her in hot fancy with caresses,
And cuckolds the poor bridegroom as he blesses!
Perish the masses for a burning soul,
That never yet extinguish'd half a coal!
No more for sins let pilgrims visit Rome—
Th' Almighty can forgive a rogue at home.
Strike me that purgatory from our creed—
Heav'n wants not fire to clarify the dead.
Break me old Januarius's bottle;
And let Contempt the old impostor throttle!
A truce to pray'rs for saints in Heav'n to hear—
'Tis idle—since not one of them is there.
Away with benedictions—canting matter!
A horsepond is as good as holy water.
Unveil the nuns, and useful make their charms;
And let their prison be a lover's arms.
I scout your porter Peter and his keys,
That ope to ev'ry rogue a pope shall please.
Avaunt the institutions that enslave!
The man who thought of marriage was a knave;
Rais'd a huge cannon against human bliss,
And spoil'd that first of joys, the rapt'rous kiss;
Delicious novelty from Beauty drove,
And made the gloomy state the tomb of Love;
To discord turning what had charm'd the ear:
Converting Burgundy to sour small-beer.
Thus from his bright domain a sun is hurl'd,
To gild a pin-hole, that should light a world.
Exulting Reason from her bondage springs,
Claims Heav'n's wide range, and spreads her eagle wings;
While Superstition, lodg'd with bats and owls,
With Horror, and the hopeless maniac, howls.’
Thus crieth France!
‘Rome, I despise thee: all thy popes are knaves;
Thy cardinals and priests the earth encumber—
Avaunt the saints, and all such holy lumber!
Chop off their heads; away the legs and toes:
Away the wonder-working tooth and nose:
Away the wonder-working eyes and tears,
The vile imposture of a thousand years!
Calves' heads, pigs' pettitoes, perform as well,
Raise from the dead, and plagues and devils expel.
Saint Genevieve no longer is divine—
The wise Parisians mock her worm-gnaw'd shrine;
Whose coffin planks that could such awe inspire,
May go to light the kitchen-wench's fire.
Saint Jail, Saint Whip, Saint Guillotine, Saint Rope,
Possess (we think) more virtue than the pope.
My wool-comber, my saddler, and my hatter
No more Saint Blaize, Saint James, Saint Saviour flatter:
My carpenter, my farrier, and my furrier,
My fishmonger, my butcher, baker, currier,
408
Bow to those marvel-mongers, and adore .
Hang me,’ the barber cries, ‘if I'm the fool
To trim for nought the Virgin Mary's poll!’
‘Burn me,’ cries Crispin, ‘if I don't refuse
To find the gentlewoman in her shoes!’
‘Curse me,’ the mercer cries, ‘if I give gowns,
To be the laughing-stock of all our towns!’
‘Damn me,’ the hosier roars, ‘if 'tis not shocking,
That I should give the woman's legs a stocking!
‘And why,’ the linen man exclaims, ‘a pox,
Should I, forsooth, be forc'd to find her smocks?
No more shall bumpkins near the altar place
Fair veal and mutton, for th' Almighty's grace;
Grace to increase the loves of bulls and rams,
And make more families of calves and lambs;
No more shall capons too for grace be swapp'd,
By priests ador'd, and in a twinkling snapp'd.
My bumpkins, once such fools, think wiser now,
That God without their aid can bless the cow,
With due fertility the poultry keep,
And kindle love sufficient for the sheep.
On their past folly with amaze they stare,
And mock the solemn mummery of pray'r;
No more on Anthony's once hallow'd feast,
The horse and ass shall travel to be blest;
No more shall Hodge's prong and shovel start,
Boot, saddle, bridle, wheelbarrow, and cart;
No more in Lent shall wiser Frenchmen starve,
While God affords them a good fowl to carve.
Away with fasts—a fool could only hatch 'em—
Frenchmen, eat fowls, wherever you can catch 'em.
Let not the fear of hell your jaws control—
A capon, trust me, never damn'd a soul.
Heav'n kindly sends to man the things man chooses;
And he's an impious blockhead who refuses.
409
And, 'stead of demons, let them Austrians chase.
Away with relics, holy water, oils,
At which Credulity herself recoils!
Lo, Kellerman's and Custine's gun-clad pow'r
Will do more wonders with their iron show'r,
Than all the saints and crosses of the nation,
Since saints and crosses grew a foolish fashion.
Let crucibles and crucifixes join,
And silver saints perform their feats in coin;
Make a good rubber of the Virgin's wig—
Out with her ear-rings, and the dame unrig;
Sell off her gowns and petticoats of gold!
A piece of timber need not fear the cold.
Out with the priests, to lust's wild phrensy fed,
Who put the bridegroom and the bride to bed;
One eye to Heav'n with sanctity applied,
The other leering on the blushful bride;
Who loads her in hot fancy with caresses,
And cuckolds the poor bridegroom as he blesses!
Perish the masses for a burning soul,
That never yet extinguish'd half a coal!
No more for sins let pilgrims visit Rome—
Th' Almighty can forgive a rogue at home.
Strike me that purgatory from our creed—
Heav'n wants not fire to clarify the dead.
Break me old Januarius's bottle;
And let Contempt the old impostor throttle!
A truce to pray'rs for saints in Heav'n to hear—
'Tis idle—since not one of them is there.
Away with benedictions—canting matter!
A horsepond is as good as holy water.
Unveil the nuns, and useful make their charms;
And let their prison be a lover's arms.
I scout your porter Peter and his keys,
That ope to ev'ry rogue a pope shall please.
Avaunt the institutions that enslave!
The man who thought of marriage was a knave;
410
And spoil'd that first of joys, the rapt'rous kiss;
Delicious novelty from Beauty drove,
And made the gloomy state the tomb of Love;
To discord turning what had charm'd the ear:
Converting Burgundy to sour small-beer.
Thus from his bright domain a sun is hurl'd,
To gild a pin-hole, that should light a world.
Exulting Reason from her bondage springs,
Claims Heav'n's wide range, and spreads her eagle wings;
While Superstition, lodg'd with bats and owls,
With Horror, and the hopeless maniac, howls.’
Thus crieth France!
Thus Infidelity walks bold abroad,
And, 'stead of Faith, the cherub, see a toad!
Such is th' impiety of France, alas!
And shall such blasphemy unpunish'd pass?
No!—for the honour of Religion, rise,
And flash conviction on their miscreant eyes.
The French are devils—devils—downright devils;
In heavenly wheat, accurs'd destructive weevils!
Abominations! atheists, to a man;
Rogues that convert the finest flour to bran;
In Vice's drunken cup for ever guzzling;
Just like the hogs in mud uncleanly nuzzling.
I know the rascals have a sin in petto,
To rob the holy lady of Loretto;
Attack her temple with their guns, so warrish,
And thrust the gentlewoman on the parish—
A lady all so graceful, gay, and rich,
With gems and wonders lodg'd in ev'ry stitch.
Heir of Saint Peter, kindle then thine ire,
And bid France feel thy apostolic fire;
Think of the quantity of sacred wood
Thy treasuries can launch into the flood;
What ships the holy manger can create!
At least a dozen of the largest rate—
And, lo, enough of sweet Saint Martha's hair,
To rig this dozen mighty ships of war.
Our Saviour's pap-spoon, that a world adores,
Would make a hundred thousand pair of oars.
Gather the stones that knock'd down poor Saint Stephen,
And fling at Frenchmen in the name of Heav'n;
Bring forth the thousands of Saint Catherine's nails,
That ev'ry convent, church, and chapel hails—
For storms, uncork the bottled sighs of martyrs,
And blow the rogues to earth's remotest quarters.
Such relics, of good mother Church the pride,
How would they currycomb a Frenchman's hide!
Son of the church, again I say, arise,
And flash new marvels in their sinner eyes;
With teeth and jaw-bones on thy holy back,
Thumbs, fingers, knuckle-bones, to fill a sack;
With joints of rump and loins, and heels and toes,
Begin thy march, and meet thy atheist foes:
Struck with a panic shall the villains leap,
And fly thy presence, like a flock of sheep.
Thus shall the rebels to Religion yield,
And thou with holy triumph keep the field.
And, 'stead of Faith, the cherub, see a toad!
Such is th' impiety of France, alas!
And shall such blasphemy unpunish'd pass?
No!—for the honour of Religion, rise,
And flash conviction on their miscreant eyes.
The French are devils—devils—downright devils;
In heavenly wheat, accurs'd destructive weevils!
Abominations! atheists, to a man;
Rogues that convert the finest flour to bran;
In Vice's drunken cup for ever guzzling;
Just like the hogs in mud uncleanly nuzzling.
I know the rascals have a sin in petto,
To rob the holy lady of Loretto;
Attack her temple with their guns, so warrish,
And thrust the gentlewoman on the parish—
A lady all so graceful, gay, and rich,
With gems and wonders lodg'd in ev'ry stitch.
Heir of Saint Peter, kindle then thine ire,
And bid France feel thy apostolic fire;
Think of the quantity of sacred wood
Thy treasuries can launch into the flood;
What ships the holy manger can create!
At least a dozen of the largest rate—
411
To rig this dozen mighty ships of war.
Our Saviour's pap-spoon, that a world adores,
Would make a hundred thousand pair of oars.
Gather the stones that knock'd down poor Saint Stephen,
And fling at Frenchmen in the name of Heav'n;
Bring forth the thousands of Saint Catherine's nails,
That ev'ry convent, church, and chapel hails—
For storms, uncork the bottled sighs of martyrs,
And blow the rogues to earth's remotest quarters.
Such relics, of good mother Church the pride,
How would they currycomb a Frenchman's hide!
Son of the church, again I say, arise,
And flash new marvels in their sinner eyes;
With teeth and jaw-bones on thy holy back,
Thumbs, fingers, knuckle-bones, to fill a sack;
With joints of rump and loins, and heels and toes,
Begin thy march, and meet thy atheist foes:
Struck with a panic shall the villains leap,
And fly thy presence, like a flock of sheep.
Thus shall the rebels to Religion yield,
And thou with holy triumph keep the field.
Thus in Jamaica, once upon a time,
(Ah! well remember'd by the man of rhime!)
Quako, high priest of all the negro nation,
And full of negro faith in conjuration,
Loaded his jackass deep with wonder-bags
Of monkeys' teeth, glass, horse-hair, and red rags ;
When forth they march'd—a goodly solemn pace,
To pour destruction on the Christain race:
To send the husbands to th' infernal shades,
Hug their dear wives, and ravish the fair maids;
To bring god Mumbo Jumbo into vogue,
And sanctify the names of wh---and rogue!
By Fortune's foot behold the scheme disjointed;
And, lo, the black apostle disappointed!
But mark! this diff'rence, to the world's surprise,
Between your Holiness and Quako lies:—
O'er France (no more an unbelieving foe,
Who bought thy relics, and ador'd thy toe)
Divine dominion shalt thou stretch, O pope,
While luckless Quako only stretch'd—a rope.
(Ah! well remember'd by the man of rhime!)
Quako, high priest of all the negro nation,
And full of negro faith in conjuration,
Loaded his jackass deep with wonder-bags
Of monkeys' teeth, glass, horse-hair, and red rags ;
When forth they march'd—a goodly solemn pace,
To pour destruction on the Christain race:
To send the husbands to th' infernal shades,
Hug their dear wives, and ravish the fair maids;
To bring god Mumbo Jumbo into vogue,
And sanctify the names of wh---and rogue!
412
And, lo, the black apostle disappointed!
But mark! this diff'rence, to the world's surprise,
Between your Holiness and Quako lies:—
O'er France (no more an unbelieving foe,
Who bought thy relics, and ador'd thy toe)
Divine dominion shalt thou stretch, O pope,
While luckless Quako only stretch'd—a rope.
Where is the priest that cannot curse a rat,
A weasel, locust, grasshopper, and gnat?—
If journeymen can curse the reptile clan,
The master certainly can curse a man.
Father of miracles, then stir thy stumps,
And break the legs of Sin, that takes such jumps;
Fall not upon thy face, and cur-like yelp;
And, panting, panic-stricken, cry—‘God help!’
A weasel, locust, grasshopper, and gnat?—
If journeymen can curse the reptile clan,
The master certainly can curse a man.
Father of miracles, then stir thy stumps,
And break the legs of Sin, that takes such jumps;
Fall not upon thy face, and cur-like yelp;
And, panting, panic-stricken, cry—‘God help!’
To show that pray'r alone will not avail,
The muse shall finish with a well-known tale.
The muse shall finish with a well-known tale.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |