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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PATHETIC ODES.
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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
PATHETIC ODES.
THE DUKE OF RICHMOND's DOG THUNDER.
AND THE WIDOW's PIGS; A TALE.
THE POOR SOLDIER OF TILBURY FORT.—ODE TO CERTAIN FOREIGN SOLDIERS.—ODE TO EASTERN TYRANTS.—THE FROGS AND JUPITER; A FABLE.—THE DIAMOND PIN AND CANDLE; A FABLE.—THE SUN AND THE PEACOCK; A FABLE.
At least his horse's ribs so glorious bleed:
Where, nobly daring danger, death, and scars,
He flies and rallies on his bounding steed.
ODE.
[Though huge to us this flying world appears]
The Poet giveth Philosophy's modest and sublime Picture of Infinity, a Picture damned by the great Folk of the present Day.—Peter maketh a most sagacious Discovery of a Connexion never thought of before, viz. between Folly and Grandeur. —He talketh of Wisdom, and abuseth the Blindness of the Vulgar.—He talketh of Flattery. —He plumply contradicteth the Vulgar, and advanceth unanswerable Reasons.—He descanteth on Mind and Body, proving that a Horsewhip is as necessary for the one as the other.—The wise and elegant Speech of the 'Squire, or elder Brother.—The Poet discovereth Distance to be the Parent of Admiration, and confuteth the Opinion of Mob, by a pantomimical Illustration. —Peter attacketh many great Men, most aptly making Use of a Windmill and a Warming -pan.—He selecteth one great and good Man from the herd of bad.
And great the bustle of a thousand years;
How small to him who form'd the vast of nature!
One trembling drop of animated water !
Though in our own conceits so fiercely stout;
Nay, such small wights in Providence's eye,
As asks Omnipotence to find us out.’
Trash, nonsense, impudence,’ cry kings and lords.
Folly and Grandeur oft together dwell:
Folly with Title oft is seen to skip,
Stare from his eye, and grin upon his lip.
Or lord to lord, like an estate;
The present day believeth no such thing—
Matters are vastly chang'd of late.
‘Nature on many a titled front writes fool.
But, lo! the vulgar world is blind, stone blind;
The beast can see no writing of the kind;
Or if it sees, it cannot read—
Now this is marvellous indeed.’
‘Gods of the earth are emp'rors, popes, and kings;
Godlings, our dukes and earls, and such fine folk.’
And thus the liar Flatt'ry sung of yore;
The fascinated million cry'd encore,
For Wisdom was too young to smell the joke.
And faint, too faint, of Truth's young sun the ray;
And beaming chase a world of fog away.
Whoever told you so, told arrant lies:
It cannot be.—Not! why?—Hear me, pray,
They are so dev'lish lazy, let me say.
To use a vulgar phrase, ‘The mind must sweat.’
Now men of worship will not sweat the mind;
Meat, clothes, and pleasure, come without, they find.
To drag from Science's hard quarry, stone,
Who really wanteth nothing from the hole—
A toil which therefore may be let alone?
As maketh ev'ry elder brother start;
Who openeth thus his widely-grinning mouth,
‘Fine fun, indeed, for me to drag a cart!
Old Square-toes, thank my God, has caught my fleas.’
Where for this fine strong fellow would ye seek?
‘Seek! seek a drayman,’ with one voice ye cry;
‘A chairman or a ploughman, to be sure;
Men who a constancy of toil endure;
Such are the fellows that we ought to try.’
Some likeness 'twixt the body and the mind?
But, sirs, this is not ev'ry body's creed:
Mob is not in the secret—that's the case;
Mob deemeth great men gods!—yes, ev'ry where,
Far off, or near.
Now let a short remark or two take place.
By G*d, they are not gods.—I pray ye, go
To pantomimes, where fine cascades and fields,
And rocks, a huge delight to Wonder yields:
Lord! what imagination really shocks!
Black pairs of breeches, scarcely worth a groat:
What are the fields so flourishing? green baize,
The objects of your most astonish'd gaze:
What the cascade? a tinsel petticoat,
And tinsel gown upon a windlass turning
The fields and rocks so nat'rally adorning.
Great sycophants, great swindlers, and great knaves;
Too often bred in Tyranny's dark schools,
Happy to see the under-world their slaves.
Great men, at diff'rent times, are diff'rent too;
More so when int'rest is the game in view.
Are most unlike each other in their nature;
Yet, trust me, the same man, in place and out,
Is to the full as opposite a creature.
Their eyes on mis'ry will not always glance;
As, for example, Richmond's glorious grace,
A duke of most unquestionable merit,
With Merc'ry's cunning, and dread Mars's spirit,
Who took the Ordnance, a tremendous place!
To find out objects of sheer merit, trying:
How happy too, if objects of distress;
Thus is his Grace of Guns ador'd by all;
For this, where'er he rides, both great and small,
Him and his horse, with eyes uplifted, bless.
Should one pale form of want his eye escape:
‘No,’ cries his grace, ‘Misfortune shall not worry,
Whilst I a sixpence for the poor can scrape,’
How much like majesty in Windsor town,
Hunting for Pity's objects up and down!
The muse o'er Tilb'ry Fort shall breathe a sigh.
Yet ere on Tilb'ry Fort we drop a tear,
Lo! with a tale we treat the public ear—
Relate a pretty story of his grace:
Much will the tale his grace's soul display—
Happ'ning ('tis said) at Goodwood on a day—
'Twill put a smile or frown on ev'ry face.
THE DUKE OF RICHMOND's DOG THUNDER,
AND THE WIDOW's PIG.
The Widow's whole Fortune lodged in the Sow. —Her Joy on the Sow's lying-in.—The Duke's Dog Thunder much like Courtiers.—Thunder killeth the young Pigs, yet surpasseth Courtiers in Modesty.—The Sow crieth out.—The Widow joineth the Sow in her Exclamations.—The old Steward cometh forth at the Cry of the Sow and Widow, and uttereth a most pathetic Exclamation. —A sensible Dissertation on the different Species of Compassion.—The Widow's piteous Address to his Grace.—His Grace's humane and generous Answer to the Widow.
Which nat'rally did into travail fall,
And brought forth many a comely son and daughter;
On which the widow wondrously was glad,
Caper'd and sung, as really she were mad—
But tears oft hang upon the heels of laughter.
A dog, like courtiers, much inclin'd to plunder;
This dog, with courtier-jealousy so bitter,
Beheld the sweetly-snuffling sportive litter.
Upon this harmless litter, Thunder sprang,
And murder'd brothers, sisters, quick as thought;
Then sneak'd away, his tail between his rear,
Seeming asham'd—unlike great courtiers here,
Who (Fame reporteth) are asham'd of nought.
All her sweet babies ready for the shroud;
Now chas'd the rogue that such sad mischief work'd;
Out ran the dame—join'd Mistress Sow's shrill cries;
Burst was at once the bag that held her sighs,
And all the bottles of her tears uncork'd.
Oh! he hath murder'd all my pretty pigs.’
Forth march'd the steward, grey, with lifted sight,
And lifted hands, good man, and cry'd ‘Odsnigs!’
And rueful countenance, and hollow groan,
Did seem like pity also, for her case:
Yet what's odsnigs, or moan, or groan, or sighs,
Unhelp'd, by Famine if the object dies?
Or what a yard of methodistic face?
One deals in sighs—now sighs are merely wind:
Another only good advice affords,
Instead of alms—now this is only words:
Another cannot bear to see the poor;
So orders the pale beggar from the door.
(But, ah! the human soul it rarely graces),
Off'ring long purses too, instead of faces.
To follow an old pitiful remark;
Like wanton spaniels that desert the game,
To yelp and course a butterfly or lark.
Wiping her eyes so red, and flowing nose.
Thunder's confounded wicked chops
Have murder'd all my beauteous hopes—
I hope your Grace will pay for ev'ry hog.’
‘Don't cry,’ quoth he, ‘and make so much foul weather—
Go home, dame; and when thunder eats the sow,
I'll pay for all the family together.’
ODE TO A POOR SOLDIER OF TILBURY FORT.
The Poet pronounceth the very great Shyness subsisting between Merit and Money.—Merit's Connexion with Poverty, and the Consequence. Attack on Fortune.—Address to the poor Soldier. He pitieth the poor Soldier's pitiable Fate, viz. his ragged Coat, hungry Stomach, and Want of Fire.—His Companions on the Mud. —Peter smileth at the Hubbub made on Account of a Shot-hole in the little Coat of a great Prince, a Remnant of Glory that may probably add another Ray to the Lustre of St. Paul's.—Peter most pathetically inquireth for his Grace—proclaimeth him to be at Brighton, most heroically engaged.—The different Amusements of his Grace at Brighton, awake and asleep.—Crumbs of Consolation to the poor Soldier.
Form'd for each other, they should oftener greet;
Indeed much oftener should be seen together:
But Money, vastly shy, doth keep aloof;
Thus Poverty and Merit beat the hoof,
Expos'd, poor souls, to every kind of weather.
So slammakin, untidy, ragged, mean,
Her garments all so shabby and unpinn'd:
But look at Folly's fat Dutch lubber child;
How on the tawdry cub has Fortune smil'd
When with contempt the goddess should have grinn'd!
Whose state forlorn his Grace could never see.
Drawn mangled from the gory hills of slain,
Perhaps the soul of Belisarius thine;
Why with a tatter'd coat along the shore,
Where Ocean seems to heave a pitying roar,
Why do I see thee thus neglected pine?
And join a hungry dog, or famish'd cat,
A pig, a gull, a cormorant, a crow,
In quest of crabs, a muscle, or a sprat!
Along the beach I see thee lonely creep,
Beneath the passing solitary moon,
A spectre stealing 'mid the world of sleep.
And quiv'ring lip, I mark thy famish'd form,
And hollow jellied orbs that dimly stare,
Thou piteous pensioner upon the storm.
The muse's handkerchief shall wipe thine eye,
And bring sweet Hope to sooth the mournful sigh.
With wither'd, palsy'd, shaking, wounded hand,
Of wrecks, alas! the melancholy stick,
Thrown by the howling tempest on the strand?
To guard the throne of Britain's sacred lord!
And on an empire's vitals eats and drinks.
Touch but a prince's hat or coat,
Expanded are the hundred mouths of Fame;
Whilst braver thousands (but untitled wretches),
Swept by the sword, shall drop like paltry vetches,
Their sate unpitied, and unheard their name!
To warm thyself, and wife, and children dear?
Where is the goodly duke—of coals the 'squire,
Whose heart hath melted oft at Mis'ry's tear?
Sport of the saucy winds and soaking rain!
For this has Courage fac'd the flying ball?
For this has bleeding Brav'ry press'd the plain?
Turns Bagshot pale, and frightens Hounslow Heath?
At least his horse's ribs so glorious bleed;
Where, nobly daring danger, death, and scars,
He flies and rallies on his bounding steed.
To prove that truly great and valiant men,
In idle duels never should engage,
But nurse for dread reviews their godlike rage.
Where high and mighty meditations suit,
On leather, leather, turns his lofty mind,
To make a cannon of an old jack-boot!
Lord! what his rapture when he deigns to ride!
To feel beneath his Grace's gracious rump,
An eighteen pounder in his horse's hide!
And to Mount Wyse , his lyre the hero tunes;
There too the pow'r of doating Fancy draws
The Royal George to sight by air-balloons .
By Fancy's pow'r the royal ship may rise,
Borne by her bladders through the fields of air,
Just like a twig, by rooks, along the skies.
'Midst hum and snore of troops, for England's good;
Explores machines of death in happy dreams,
For hills of bones, and cataracts of blood.
He bustles in his sleep, and starts, and turns;
Now grasps the sword, and now a candle end,
That, blazing like himself, beside him burns.
Vast schemes in slumber spins for England's sake;
‘And, lo!’ quoth Fame, ‘his godlike Grace can plan
As wisely in his sleep as when awake.’
No matter where—for rhime-sake call it Dover—
What were the trophies hence to Rome he bore?
Of paltry perriwinkles just a score!
Life to the state, and safety to a king!
He triumphs up the town without a wound ;
Most lucky, losing neither man nor horse!
Thus is the sun, at times, of clouds the sport:
Yet soon the glories of his lordship's face
Shall, like a comet, blaze o'er Tilb'ry fort.
Gain thee a coat, and coals, to kill the cold;
Nay, fat shall swim upon thy meagre porridge:
The sympathizing duke her tale will hear,
And drop, at sound of coat and coals, a tear—
For Richmond's bounty equals Richmond's courage.
A place near Plymouth Dock, on which the national treasure has been so wisely expended for the innumerable conveniences of his brother Lennox.
The poet seems to have forgotten himself: his motto talks a different language: but the quidlibet audendi belongs as much to P. P. as to every other poet.
ODE TO CERTAIN FOREIGN SOLDIERS, IN CERTAIN PAY.
A complimentary Address to the Soldiers.— Wholesome Advice.—Peter draweth a natural and pathetic Picture of poor little Louis, reported to have been disgracefully put an Apprentice to a Cobbler.—The Insolence and Cruelty of his Master the Cobbler.—The Cobbler blasphemously abuseth Title.—The little Cobler King crieth.—Sensible Reflections on the Genius of Kings, with a Lick at the French Convention, and also at his own Stupidity.— Peter supplicateth for the little Louis.—Adviseth the Soldiers to a bold Action.—Inquireth of Soldiers who is to receive their Death-money. —Peter comforteth, and reconcileth them to Death.
Peter blesseth the King and the War, and curseth Reform, a Word in the Mouths of Mr. Pitt and the Duke of Richmond before they got into Office. —Peter adviseth more taxes, for a weighty political Reason, videlicit, on Account of the Impudence of a Nation, which always increaseth in an insufferable ratio with Riches.
Who wage so gloriously the flying war,
I give you joy of hand and leg endeavour;
And though ye sometimes chance to run away,
The generous General Murray's pleas'd to say,
‘'Tis very great indeed—'tis vastly clever.’
O with the tiger's gripe upon them spring!
A pack of vile, degrading, horrid hogs;
To make a dirty cobbler of a king!
Behold his pretty fingers wax the thread,
And now the leather on the lap-stone, hole;
Now puts his majesty the bristle in,
Now wide he throws his arms with milk-white skin,
And now he spits and hammers on the sole.
Leers on the window of his shed; and, lo!
He bawls (without of awe a single jot)
‘Come, Master King—quick, sirrah, mend my shoe.’
And, lo! at ev'ry stitch with fear he quakes—
Such is of Liberty the blessed fruit!
The name Licentiousness would better suit.
The low-life cobbler's tutelary saint,
Of little Louis deck the dirty cell;
How diff'rent from the lofty Louvre's paint!
See! his hard master catches up the strap,
And lashes the young king's poor back and side—
How! flog his majesty!—for what mishap?
Ye gods! because he spoil'd a bit of hide!
‘Sirrah, there's nothing in a lofty name;
Don't think, because thy ancestors, so great,
Have to a paring brought a glorious state,
I give thee leave to spoil a piece of leather.’
Course o'er his tender cheek in silence down;
And now, with bitter grief, he feels and sees
The diff'rence 'twixt a stirrup and a crown.
'Tis such a piece of madness to my mind!
What could Convention hope from such a thing?
The race is fit for nothing—of the kind.
France meant to put upon the royal race;
‘Aye, and disgrace upon the cobbler too,’
Most impudently roars the man of shoe.
O snatch the stirrup from his royal knee;
Pull the hand-leather off and seize the awl!
Seize too the hammer that his fingers gall!
Knock Danton down, and crucify Barrere;
Crush the vile egg which from the serpent springs,
To dart th' envenom'd fang at sacred kings.
At thirty guineas each—how dear your hides!
Much should I like the contract, let me say:
Thrice lucky rogue, that o'er your lives presides!
That is to say, if ye desire to thrive;
For know, if death should prove your lucky lot,
You're worth a vast deal more than when alive.
POSTSCRIPT.
And d*mn that wicked word we call Reform;
Breeding in Britain so much horrid jar,
So witch-like, conj'ring up a dangerous storm!
Once what a sweet and inoffensive word!
Thus proving the delightful proverb true,
‘What's meat to me, may poison be to you.’
Who for invention beats nineteen in twenty;
And may this gentleman's most ready wit
Supply the nation all with taxes plenty;
And as the kingdom has unclench'd its fist,
Pick out a few odd pence for civil list.
Wealth is inclin'd to be confounded brassy.
Draining away the humours all so gross;
Else would the empire be of guts a sack—
A Falstaff—woolsack—an unwieldy joss.
Giving the blood so brisk a circulation!
A kingdom, and a poet, and a cat,
Should never, never, never be too fat.
ODE.
[A cat who from a window peepeth out]
Cats and Princes very much alike.
‘Is very like a cat who peepeth in’—
Thus it is said—and he who is no lout,
Knoweth that cats are unto men akin.
Are very much like princes looking down;
That is, love pow'r, love wealth, have great propensities,
Sublimely dealing ever in immensities.
Yes, many a foreign king and foreign queen;
With stomachs wide too as a whale's, or wider:
The subject and a king, in foreign land,
I often have been giv'n to understand,
Are a poor jack-ass and his rider.
ODE TO TYRANTS.
Peter, with his poetical Broomstick, belaboureth foreign Tyrants.—Taketh the Part of the oppressed Poor.—Asketh Tyrants knotty and puzzling Questions.—Giveth a Speech of Cato.—Peter seriously informeth them that they are not like the Lord.—Peter taketh a Survey of the Furniture of their Heads.—Peter solemnly declareth that the Million doth not like to be ridden. —Giveth an insolent Speech of Tyrants, and calleth them Highwaymen.—The Taylor and the Satin Breeches.—The Shoemaker and the Shoes.—Peter lamenteth that there should be some who think it a Sin to resist Tyrants.— Adviseth them to read Æsop's Fables.
That millions to your will must bow the neck,
And, ox-like, meanly take the galling yoke?
Philosophers your ignorance despise;
Ev'n Folly, laughing, lifts her maudlin eyes,
And freely on your wisdoms cracks her joke.
Whose honest toils supply your mouths with bread;
Who, groaning, sweating, like so many hacks,
Work you the very clothes upon your backs?
Clothes of calamity, I fear,
That hold in ev'ry stitch a tear.
Sent you to man on purpose from the sky,
Because of wisdom it is not a proof:
Show your credentials, sirs:—if ye refuse,
Terrific gentlemen, our smiles excuse,
Belief most certainly will keep aloof.
Thus to the Soothsayers was heard to say,
‘Augurs! by all the gods it is a shame,
To gull the mole-ey'd million at this rate;
Making of gaping blockheads such a game,
Pretending to be hand and glove with Fate!
To carry on the holy cheat,
How is it ye preserve that solemn grace,
Nor burst with laughter in each other's face?’
‘In Wonder's name,
How can ye meanly grov'ling bow the head
To pieces of gilt gingerbread?
Fetch, carry, fawn, kneel, flatter, crawl, tell lies,
To please the creature that ye should despise?’
Ye ar'n't a whit like God, in my opinion;
Though you think otherwise, I do presume:
Hot to the marrow with the ruling lust,
Fancying your crouching subjects so much dust,
Your lofty selves the mighty sweeping broom.
Come, sirs, turn out—let's see what each contains:
Heav'ns, how ridiculous! what motley stuff!
Shut, quickly shut again the brazen doors;
Too much of balderdash the eye explores;
Yes, shut them, shut them, we have seen enough.
To such sad beasts, has God his creatures hurl'd?
Despots that rule a realm of slaves;
Proud to be gaz'd at by a reptile race:
Charm'd with the music of their clanking chains,
Pleas'd with the fog of state that clouds their brains,
Who cry, with all the impudence of face,
Your money, miscreants—quick, no words, no strife;
Your lands too, scoundrels, vermin, lice, bugs, fleas;
And thank our mercy that allows you life!’
On Slavery's poor gall'd back so wont to ride.
Submissive to a pair of satin breeches?
Saying, ‘O breeches, all men must allow
There's something in your aspect that bewitches!
And though I made you, let me still adore ye:
Though a rump's humble servant, form'd for need,
To keep it warm, yet, Lord! you are so fine,
I cannot think you are my work indeed—
Though merely mortal, lo! ye seem divine!’
Who would not quick exclaim, ‘The tailor's mad?’
Yet tyrant-adoration is as bad.
Silk and bespangled, such as ladies use—
Suppose the shoes so proud, upon each heel,
Perk it in Crispin's face, with saucy pride,
And all the meanness of his trade deride,
And all the state of self-importance feel:
Crispin would quickly cry, ‘A pretty whim!
Is not the silk and spangles that ye boast
Put on you at my proper cost?
Whatever's on ye, is it not all mine?
Did not I put you thus together, pray?’
What could the simple shoes in answer say?
Who deem it foul to stay a tyrant's arm,
That falls with fate upon their humble skulls:
Some for a despot's rod have heav'd the sigh!
Let such on wiser Æsop cast an eye,
And read the fable of the Frogs, the fools.
THE FROGS AND JUPITER.
Of emp'rors grew at once extremely fond;
Yes, yes, an emp'ror was a glorious thing;
Each really took it in his addle pate,
'Twould be so charming to exchange their state!
An emp'ror would such heaps of blisses bring!
Frog-man and yellow wife, and youth and lass,
A numerous tribe, to knuckle down to Jove,
And pray the gods to send an emp'ror down,
'Twas such a pretty thing, th' imperial crown!
So form'd their pleasures, honours, to improve.
Jove briskly stepp'd, with two wide-wond'ring eyes:
‘Mynheers,’ quoth Jove, ‘if ye are wise, be quiet;
Know when you're happy’—but he preach'd in vain;
They made the most abominable riot;
‘An emp'ror, emp'ror, yes, we must obtain.’
A monstrous piece of wood, from whence he chopp'd
Kings for the gentlefolks of ancient days:
Stunn'd at the sound, the frogs all shook with dread;
Like dabchicks, under water push'd each head,
Afraid a single nose so pale to raise.
Who, slily winking to a third frog, beckon'd;
And so on, till they all obtain'd a peep;
Now nearer, nearer edging on they drew,
And finding nothing terrible, nor new,
Bold on his majesty began to leap:
Such croaking, laughing, ridiculing, fun!
So much of grace and manners did they lack,
One little villain saucily squat down,
And, with a grin, defil'd the royal back.
‘O Jupiter, this is so sad a beast,
So dull a monarch—so devoid of brain!
Give us a king of spirit, Jove, at least.’
Who with his loving subjects went to work;
Chas'd the poor sprawling imps from pool to pool,
Resolv'd to get a handsome belly full.
Did wriggling scores most lamentably squeak:
Bold push'd the emp'ror on, with stride so noble,
Bolting his subjects with majestic gobble.
'Midst hoppings, scramblings, murder, and dismay:
O save us from this imp of Hell!’
‘Mynheers,’ quoth Jove, ‘pray keep your emp'ror Stork—
Fools never know when they are well.’
A term to be found in the Hampshire Dictionary, implying a rapid deglutition of bacon, without the sober ceremony of mastication. It is, moreover, to be observed, that Hampshire servants, who are bacon-bolters, have always less wages than bacon-chewers.
ODE.
[Emp'rors, and popes, and nabobs, mighty things]
Peter giveth a gentle Trimming to the Jackets of foreign Potentates; and a Pair of pretty Fables, by way of Looking-glasses, for their Most High Haughtinesses.
I think, too, we may take in foreign kings,
Too often deem their humble makers, slaves;
Now such high folk are either fools or knaves,
Or both together probably—a case
That happens frequently amongst the race.
Methinks now, this is scandalous—'tis hateful—
Wicked, and, what is full as bad, ungrateful.
Enough to make the sourest cynic smile,
Or, as the proverb says, ‘make a dog laugh,’
Think honours from themselves arise alone;
Thus are their makers at a distance thrown,
Consider'd as mere mob, mere dirt, mere chaff.
What to us riffraff of the world they owe.
THE DIAMOND PIN AND THE FARTHING CANDLE; A FABLE.
A di'mond pin one night began to bluster;
Full of conceit, like some young flirting girl,
Her senses lost in Vanity's wild whirl:
Left by the lady of the broom,
Nam'd Susan, slipp'd into another room,
Something of consequence to handle—
‘Pray keep your distance—don't stay here, and wink;
I loathe ye—you and all your greasy kin—
Good heav'ns! how horribly you look and stink!’
‘Soften a little that ungrateful pride:
You shine indeed—to this I must agree:
Yes, Miss, you make a very pretty blaze;
But let me tell ye, that your wondrous rays
Owe all their boasted brilliancy to me.’
First with a frown, and then a scornful grin;
‘I should not, sure, have dreamt of that, Miss Fat!’
Such saucy language I'll no longer bear:
Susan, come, satisfy the lady's doubt—
Take me away, I say, or blow me out.’
By no means could refuse Miss Candle's suit;
So into darkness Susan blew her beam:
‘Now,’ with a sharp sarcastic sneer,
‘Now,’ quoth Miss Candle, ‘now, my dear,
Where is of radiance now your boasted stream?
Ten thousand of them—such a mighty blaze?’
Miss Di'mond star'd, and star'd, and star'd again,
To find departed radiance, but in vain.
Each sparkle swallow'd in the depth of shade!
The bones of her high pride disjointed,
‘I fear,’ quoth Pin, ‘I much mistake my nature.’
‘True,’ answer'd Candle, ‘true, my dear Miss Pin;
Lift not, in future, quite so high your chin,
But show some rev'rence for your blaze-creator.’
THE SUN AND THE PEACOCK;
A FABLE.
Blest with a quantum sufficit of pride,
All consequence amid the solar ray,
Spread with a strut his circling plumage wide.
Your brassy face has greatly been admir'd—
Now pray, Sol, answer me—I'm not in fun—
What is there in it to be so desir'd?
If I have any eyes to see,
And, that I have, is clear to me,
My tail possesses far more splendid grace,
By far more beauty than your worship's face.’
Supposing it at first an owl:
And thus with gravity reply'd, ‘Sir, know,
That though unluckily my worship's face
Seems far beneath your tail in splendid grace,
Still to my face that glitt'ring tail you owe.’
Your highness loves a bit of fun.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ answer'd Sol again—
‘And, if you please, I'll condescend to show
How much to me you ev'ry moment owe
The boasted beauties of your waving train.’
In all the full-blown insolence of pride;
‘To credit such a tale I'm not the noddy:
Prove that the glorious plumage I display
Owes all its happy colours to thy ray,
D*m'me I'll tear my feathers from my body.’
His flaming beams from ev'ry view,
And o'er the world a depth of darkness spread:
The cocks and hens and cows began to stare,
And sulky went all supperless to bed;
For not an almanack had op'd its lips
About so very wondrous an eclipse.
Of marv'ling fowl and staring beast,
Turn'd to his feathers with some doubt,
Amaz'd to find his hundred eyes put out;
Indeed all nature did appear as black
As if old Sol had popp'd into a sack.
The Sun, still hiding, call'd aloud,
‘Well! can ye merit to my face allow?
What's now your colour? where your hundred eyes?
The mingled radiance of a thousand dies;
Speak, Master Peacock, what's your colour now?’
As courtiers high by loss of office tam'd—
‘To own the truth, much-injur'd Phœbus, know,
I'm not one atom better than a crow.
I see my folly—pity my poor train;
And let thy goodness bid it shine again.’
Like a smith's vice, your iron pow'r encloses;
Who treat your people just like dogs or swine;
The meaning of my tale, can ye divine?
If not, go try to find it, I beseech ye,
And do not let your angry subjects teach ye.
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||