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] |  |
55
ODE I.
The divine Peter giveth an Account of a Conference he held last Year with Satire, who advised him to attack some of the R. A.'s, to tear Mr. West's Works to Pieces, abuse Mr. Gainsborough, fall foul of Mrs. Cosway's Sampson, and give a gentle Stroke on the Back of Mr. Rigaud—The Poet's gentle answer to Satire—The Ode of Remonstrance that Peter received on Account of his Lyrics—Satire's Reply—Peter's Resolution.
‘Not, not this year the lyric Peter sings—
The great R. A.'s have wish'd my song to cease;
I will not pluck a feather from your wings—
So, sons of canvass! take your naps in peace.’
The great R. A.'s have wish'd my song to cease;
I will not pluck a feather from your wings—
So, sons of canvass! take your naps in peace.’
Such was my last year's gracious speech,
Sweet as the King's to Commons and to Peers,
Always with sense and tropes as plum-cake rich,
A luscious banquet for his people's ears!
Sweet as the King's to Commons and to Peers,
Always with sense and tropes as plum-cake rich,
A luscious banquet for his people's ears!
‘Not write!’ cried Satire, red as fire with rage,
‘This instant glorious war with dulness wage;
Take, take my supple-jack,
Play St. Bartholomew with many a back!
‘This instant glorious war with dulness wage;
Take, take my supple-jack,
Play St. Bartholomew with many a back!
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Flay half the academic imps alive!
Smoke, smoke the drones of that stupendous hive.
Smoke, smoke the drones of that stupendous hive.
Begin with George's idol, West;—
And then proceed in order with the rest:
This moment knock me down his master Moses,
On Sinai's mountain, where his nose is
Cock'd up so pertly plump against the Lord,
Upon my word,
With all that ease to him who rules above,
As if that Heaven and he were hand and glove.’
And then proceed in order with the rest:
This moment knock me down his master Moses,
On Sinai's mountain, where his nose is
Cock'd up so pertly plump against the Lord,
Upon my word,
With all that ease to him who rules above,
As if that Heaven and he were hand and glove.’
‘Indeed,’ quoth I, ‘the piece hath points of merit,
Though not possess'd throughout of equal spirit.’
Though not possess'd throughout of equal spirit.’
‘What!’ answer'd Satire, ‘not knock Moses down!
O stupid Peter! what the devil mean ye?
He looks a dapper barber of the town,
With paper sign-board out—“Shave for a penny.”
O stupid Peter! what the devil mean ye?
He looks a dapper barber of the town,
With paper sign-board out—“Shave for a penny.”
Observe the saucy Israelite once more—
Wears he the countenance that should adore?
Wears he the countenance that should adore?
No! 'tis a son of lather—a rank prig;
Who, 'stead of begging of the Lord the Law,
With sober looks, and reverential awe,
Seems pertly tripping up to fetch his wig.
Who, 'stead of begging of the Lord the Law,
With sober looks, and reverential awe,
Seems pertly tripping up to fetch his wig.
With all her thunder bid the Muse
Fall furious on the group of Jews,
Whose shoulders are adorn'd with Christian faces;
For by each phiz (I speak without a gibe),
There's not an Israelite in all the tribe—
Not that they are encumber'd by the Graces.
Fall furious on the group of Jews,
Whose shoulders are adorn'd with Christian faces;
For by each phiz (I speak without a gibe),
There's not an Israelite in all the tribe—
Not that they are encumber'd by the Graces.
Strike off the head of Jeremiah,
And break the bones of old Isaiah;
Down with the duck-wing'd angels, that abreast
Stretch from a thing call'd cloud, and, by their looks,
Wear more the visage of young rooks
Cawing for victuals from their nest.
And break the bones of old Isaiah;
Down with the duck-wing'd angels, that abreast
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Wear more the visage of young rooks
Cawing for victuals from their nest.
Deal Gainsborough a lash, for pride so stiff,
Who robs us of such pleasure for a miff;
Whose pencil, when he chooses, can be chaste,
Give nature's form, and please the eye of taste.
Who robs us of such pleasure for a miff;
Whose pencil, when he chooses, can be chaste,
Give nature's form, and please the eye of taste.
Of cuts on Sampson
don't be sparing,
Between two garden-rollers staring,
Shown by the lovely Dalilah foul play!
To atoms tear that Frenchman's trash,
Then bountifully deal the lash
On such as dar'd to dub him an R. A.’
Between two garden-rollers staring,
Shown by the lovely Dalilah foul play!
To atoms tear that Frenchman's trash,
Then bountifully deal the lash
On such as dar'd to dub him an R. A.’
Thus Satire to the gentle poet cry'd—
And thus with lamb-like sweetness I reply'd:—
And thus with lamb-like sweetness I reply'd:—
‘Dear Satire! pray consult my life and ease;
Were I to write whatever you desire,
The fat would all be fairly in the fire—
R. A.'s surround me like a swarm of bees,
Or like a flock of small birds round a fowl
Of solemn speculation, call'd an Owl.’
Were I to write whatever you desire,
The fat would all be fairly in the fire—
R. A.'s surround me like a swarm of bees,
Or like a flock of small birds round a fowl
Of solemn speculation, call'd an Owl.’
Quoth I, ‘O Satire, I'm a simple youth,
Must make my fortune, therefore not speak truth,
Although as sterling as the Holy Bible—
Truth makes it (Mansfield says) the more a libel:
I shall not sleep in peace within my hutch;
Like Doctor Johnson , I have wrote too much.’
Must make my fortune, therefore not speak truth,
Although as sterling as the Holy Bible—
Truth makes it (Mansfield says) the more a libel:
I shall not sleep in peace within my hutch;
Like Doctor Johnson , I have wrote too much.’
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When Mount Vesuvius
pour'd his flames,
And frighten'd all the Naples' dames,
What did the ladies of the city do?
Why, order'd a fat Cardinal to go
With good St. Januarius's head,
And shake it at the Mountain 'midst his riot
To try to keep the bully quiet:
The parson went, and shook the jowl, and sped;
Snug was the word—the flames at once kept house,
The fright'ned Mount grew mute as any mouse.
And frighten'd all the Naples' dames,
What did the ladies of the city do?
Why, order'd a fat Cardinal to go
With good St. Januarius's head,
And shake it at the Mountain 'midst his riot
To try to keep the bully quiet:
The parson went, and shook the jowl, and sped;
Snug was the word—the flames at once kept house,
The fright'ned Mount grew mute as any mouse.
Thus, should Lord Mansfield from his bench agree
To shake his lion-mane-like wig at me,
And bid his grim-look'd myrmidons assail—
With heads Medusan, and with hearts of bone;
Who, if they did not turn me into stone,
Might turn my limbs, so gentle, into jail.
To shake his lion-mane-like wig at me,
And bid his grim-look'd myrmidons assail—
With heads Medusan, and with hearts of bone;
Who, if they did not turn me into stone,
Might turn my limbs, so gentle, into jail.
Read, read this ode, just come to hand,
Giving the Muse to understand
That cruelty and scandal swell her song,
And that 'twere better far she held her tongue.
Giving the Muse to understand
That cruelty and scandal swell her song,
And that 'twere better far she held her tongue.
The story goes, that Sam, before his political conversion, replied to his present Majesty, in the Library at Buckingham-House, on being asked by the Monarch, why he did not write more?— ‘Please your Majesty, I have written too much.’ So candid a declaration, of which the sturdy moralist did not believe one syllable, procured him pension and a muzzle.
TO PETER PINDAR, ESQ.
A thousand frogs, upon a summer's day,
Were sporting 'midst the sunny ray,
In a large pool, reflecting ev'ry face;—
They show'd their gold-lac'd clothes with pride,
In harmless sallies, frequent vied,
And gambol'd through the water with a grace.
Were sporting 'midst the sunny ray,
In a large pool, reflecting ev'ry face;—
They show'd their gold-lac'd clothes with pride,
In harmless sallies, frequent vied,
And gambol'd through the water with a grace.
It happen'd that a band of boys,
Observant of their harmless joys,
Thoughtless, resolv'd to spoil their happy sport;
One phrensy seiz'd both great and small,
On the poor frogs the rogues began to fall,
Meaning to splash them, not to do them hurt.
Observant of their harmless joys,
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One phrensy seiz'd both great and small,
On the poor frogs the rogues began to fall,
Meaning to splash them, not to do them hurt.
Lo, as old authors sing, ‘the stones 'gan pour,’
Indeed an Otaheite show'r:
The consequence was dreadful, let me tell ye;
One's eye was beat out of his head,
This limp'd away, that lay for dead—
Here mourn'd a broken back, and there a belly.
Indeed an Otaheite show'r:
The consequence was dreadful, let me tell ye;
One's eye was beat out of his head,
This limp'd away, that lay for dead—
Here mourn'd a broken back, and there a belly.
Amongst the smitten, it was found,
Their beauteous queen receiv'd a wound;
The blow gave ev'ry heart a sigh,
And drew a tear from ev'ry eye:—
At length King Croak got up, and thus begun—
‘My lads, you think this very pretty fun!
Their beauteous queen receiv'd a wound;
The blow gave ev'ry heart a sigh,
And drew a tear from ev'ry eye:—
At length King Croak got up, and thus begun—
‘My lads, you think this very pretty fun!
Your pebbles round us fly as thick as hops,—
Have warmly complimented all our chops;—
To you I guess that these are pleasant stones!
And so they might be to us frogs,
You damn'd, young, good-for-nothing dogs,
But that they are so hard, they break our bones.’
Have warmly complimented all our chops;—
To you I guess that these are pleasant stones!
And so they might be to us frogs,
You damn'd, young, good-for-nothing dogs,
But that they are so hard, they break our bones.’
Peter! thou mark'st the meaning of this fable—
So put thy Pegasus into the stable;
Nor wanton thus with cruel pride,
Mad, Jehu-like, o'er harmless people ride.
So put thy Pegasus into the stable;
Nor wanton thus with cruel pride,
Mad, Jehu-like, o'er harmless people ride.
To drop the metaphor—the fair
,
Whose works thy Muse forbore to spare,
Is blest with talents Envy must approve;
And didst thou know her heart, thou sure wouldst say,
‘Perdition catch the cruel lay!’
Then strike the lyre to Innocence and Love.
Whose works thy Muse forbore to spare,
Is blest with talents Envy must approve;
And didst thou know her heart, thou sure wouldst say,
‘Perdition catch the cruel lay!’
Then strike the lyre to Innocence and Love.
‘Poh, poh!’ cried Satire, with a smile,
‘Where is the glorious freedom of our isle,
If not permitted to call names?’
Methought the argument had weight—
‘Satire,’ quoth I, ‘you're very right’—
So once more forth volcanic Peter flames!
‘Where is the glorious freedom of our isle,
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Methought the argument had weight—
‘Satire,’ quoth I, ‘you're very right’—
So once more forth volcanic Peter flames!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |