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.
Ye heroes, from your wives and turnips far,
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 cut the Frenchmen's throats, the restless dogs!
O with the tiger's gripe upon them spring!
A pack of vile, degrading, horrid hogs;
To make a dirty cobbler of a king!
See stool-propp'd majesty the leather spread!
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.
And, lo! a rascal christen'd sans-culotte,
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 see! the shoe the little monarch takes,
And, lo! at ev'ry stitch with fear he quakes—
Such is of Liberty the blessed fruit!
The name Licentiousness would better suit.
Behold Saint Crispin's picture, strange to tell,
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!
Nay, hear the cruel tyrant thus exclaim:
‘Sirrah, there's nothing in a lofty name;
‘'Tis all mere nonsense, sound, and stuff together:
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.’
And now behold the little tears, like peas,
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.
Folly! to make a cobbler of a king!
'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.
Heav'ns! then how dull I am!—It was disgrace
France meant to put upon the royal race;
‘Aye, and disgrace upon the cobbler too,’
Most impudently roars the man of shoe.
O from the lap-stone set the monarch free!
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!
Soldiers! to Paris rush—strike Robespierre,
Knock Danton down, and crucify Barrere;
Crush the vile egg which from the serpent springs,
To dart th' envenom'd fang at sacred kings.
O soldiers, whose your skin-money, I pray?
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!
Then pray don't grumble, sirs, should ye be shot;
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.
NOW God bless our good king, and this good war,
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!
Yet in the mouths of Pitt and Richmond's lord,
Once what a sweet and inoffensive word!
Thus proving the delightful proverb true,
‘What's meat to me, may poison be to you.’
And now God bless once more good Mister Pitt,
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.
We are too rich—Dame Fortune grows too saucy,
Wealth is inclin'd to be confounded brassy.
War is a wholesome blister for the back;
Draining away the humours all so gross;
Else would the empire be of guts a sack—
A Falstaff—woolsack—an unwieldy joss.
War yieldeth such rare spirits to a nation!
Giving the blood so brisk a circulation!
A kingdom, and a poet, and a cat,
Should never, never, never be too fat.
