The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

A PEACOCK, mounted on a barn one day,
Blest with a quantum sufficit of pride,
All consequence amid the solar ray,
Spread with a strut his circling plumage wide.

‘Good morrow,’ quoth the coxcomb, ‘Master Sun;
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.’

The sun look'd down with smiles upon the fowl,
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.’

‘Poh!’ quoth the peacock, ‘Master Sun,
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.’

‘Agreed, with all my soul,’ the bird reply'd,
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.’

The challeng'd Sun in clouds withdrew
His flaming beams from ev'ry view,
And o'er the world a depth of darkness spread:

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The bats their churches left, to wing the air;
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.

The Peacock too, amongst the rest
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.

Pleas'd with his triumph, from a cloud,
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?’

‘What colour!’ quoth the bird, as much asham'd
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.’

Tyrants of eastern realms, whose subjects' noses,
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.