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

Great is of hair-powder the sale —
Dundas and Pitt have both turn'd pale;
Yet courtiers cry aloud its want of merit.
Courtiers have try'd with all their spite
To sink it in Oblivion's night—
My friend, the Public, keeps it up with spirit.

How often we have seen a bullying cloud
Attack the sun, and quarrel too aloud;
Spit, thunder, lighten, frighten the two poles,
Blocking up ev'ry avenue for peeping;
On this side now, and now on that side creeping;
A sort of dirty malkin stopping holes!

Sometimes the worried glorious god of day
Insists upon a view, and shows an eye;
Just as a manager, when some sad play
Is taken ill, and very like to die,

Kens through the curtain on the critic nation,
All hissing, clatt'ring, howling out damnation.

Thus Envy, the vile hag, attacks my rhimes,
Swearing they shall not peep on distant times;
But violent indeed will be the tussel;
I deem myself, indeed, a tuneful whale:
She swears I'm not upon so large a scale;
Rather a wrinkle, limpet, paltry muscle,

Clinging to heavy rocks, or wooden things,
Meaning my loyalty, perchance, to kings.
The public seems to like my brats,
Begot, indeed, with little pain—
Whether it turbot gives, or sprats,
Behold another to maintain!
Thus, then, I cast it on that sea the town:
If true, it swims; if spurious, let it drown.

My ingenious poem so called; not Mr. Pitt's ingenious tax on that subject, which, we are well informed, succeeds as miserably in produce, as reputation.

See! Cæsar's off! the dust around him hovers,
And, gathering, lo, the King of Glory covers!
The royal hubbub fills both eye and ear,
And wide-mouth'd wonder marks the wild career.
How like his golden brother of the sky,
When nature thunders, and the storm is high;
Now in, now out of clouds, behind, before,
Who rolls amid the elemental roar.
Heav'ns! with what ardour thro' the lanes he drives,
The country trembling for its tenants' lives!
Squat on his speckled haunches gapes the toad,
And frogs affrighted hop along the road;
The hares astonish'd to their terrors yield,
Cock their long ears, and scud from field to field;
The owl, loud hooting, from his ivy rushes;
And sparrows, chatt'ring, flutter from the bushes:
Old women (call'd ‘a pack of blinking b---s),’
Dash'd by the thund'ring light-horse into ditches,
Scrambling and howling, with post---rs pointed,
Sad picture! plump against the Lord's Anointed.
Dogs bark, pigs grunt, the flying turkeys gobble;
Fowls cackle; screaming geese, with stretch'd wing, hobble;
Dire death his horses' hoofs to ducklings deal,
And goslings gape beneath the burning wheel!

Thus the great Æol, when he rushes forth,
With all his winds, east, west, and south, and north;
Flutter the leaves of trees, with woful fright,
Shook by his rage, and bullied by his might!
Straws from the lanes dispers'd, and whirl'd in air,
The blustering wonders of his mouth declare.
Heav'd from their deep foundations, with dread sound
Barns and old houses thunder to the ground,
And bowing oaks, in ages rooted strong,
Roar through their branches as he sweeps along!
George breakfasts on the road, gulps tea, bolts toast;
Jokes with the waiter, witty with the host;
Runs to the garden with his morning dues;
Makes mouths at Cloacina's; reads the news.
Now mad for fruit, he scours the garden round;
Knocks every apple that he spies, to ground;
Loads ev'ry royal pocket, seeks his chaise;
Plumps in, and fills the village with amaze!

He's off again—he smokes along the road!
Pursue him, Pye—pursue him with an ode:
And yet a pastoral might better please;
That talks of sheep, and hay, and beans and peas;
Of trees cut down , that Richmond's lawn adorn,
To gain the pittance of a peck of corn.
He reaches Weymouth—treads the Esplanade—
Hark, hark, the jingling bells! the cannonade!
Drums beat, the hurdigurdies grind the air;
Dogs, cats, old women, all upon the stare:
All Weymouth gapes with wonder—hark! huzzas!
The roaring welcome of a thousand jaws!
O Pye, shalt thou, Apollo's fav'rite son,
In loyalty by Peter be outdone?
How oft I bear thy master on my back,
Without one thimbleful of cheering sack;

While thou (not drunk, I hope), O bard divine,
Oft wett'st thy whistle with the muse's wine!
O haste where prostrate courtiers monarchs greet,
Like cats that seek the sunshine of the street;
Where Chesterfield, the lively spaniel, springs,
Runs, leaps, and makes rare merriment for kings;
Where sharp Macmanus, and sly Jealous, tread,
To guard from treach'ry's blow the royal head ;
Where Nunn and Barber , silent as the mouse,
Steal, nightly, certain goods to Glo'ster House.
O say, shall Cæsar in rare presents thrive;
Buy cheaper, too, than any man alive;
Go cheaper in excursions on the water,
And laureat Pye know nothing of the matter!
Acts that should bid his poet's bosom flame,
And make his spendthrift subjects blush with shame!
What tho' Tom Warton laugh'd at kings and queens,
And, grinning, ey'd them just as state machines;
Much better pleas'd (so sick of royal life)
To celebrate 'Squire Punch and Punch's wife?
I grant thee deep in Attic, Latian lore;
Yet learn the province of the muse of yore:
The bards of ancient times (so hist'ry sings)
Eat, drank, and danc'd, and slept with mighty kings,

Who courted, reverenc'd, lov'd the tuneful throng,
And deem'd their deeds ennobled by a song.

Lo, Pitt arrives! alas, with lantern face!
‘What, hæ, Pitt, hæ—what, Pitt, hæ, more disgrace?’
‘Ah, sire, bad news! a second dire defeat!
Vendee undone, and all the Chouans beat!’
‘Hæ, hæ, what, what?—beat, beat?—what, beat agen?
Well, well, more money—raise more men, more men.
But mind, Pitt, hæ—mind, huddle up the news;
Coin something, and the growling land amuse:
Make all the sans-culottes to Paris caper,
And Rose shall print the vict'ry in his paper.
Let's hear no more, no more of Cornish tales—
I sha'n't refund a guinea, Pitt, to Wales:
I can't afford it, no—I can't afford:
Wales cost a deal in pocket-cash and board.

‘Pitt, Pitt, there's Frost, my bailiff Frost—see, see!
Well, Pitt, go back, go back again—b'ye, b'ye:
Keep London still—no matter how they carp—
Well, well, go back, and bid Dundas look sharp.
Must not lose France—no, France must wear a crown:
If France won't swallow, ram a monarch down.
Some crowns are scarce worth sixpences—hæ, Pitt?’—
The premier smil'd, and left the royal wit.

Now Frost approaches—‘Well, Frost, well, Frost, pray,
How, how went sheep a score?—how corn and hay?’

‘An't please your majesty, a charming price:
Corn very soon will be as dear as spice.’

‘Thank God! but, say, say, do the poor complain?
Hæ, hæ, will wheat be sixpence, Frost, a grain?’

‘I hope not, sire; for great were then my fears,
That Windsor would be pull'd about our ears.’

‘Frost, Frost, no politics—no, no, Frost, no:
You, you talk politics! oho, oho!

Windsor come down about our ears! what, what?
D'ye think, hæ, hæ, that I'm afraid of that?
What, what are soldiers good for, but obey?
Macmanus, Townsend, Jealous, hæ, hæ, hæ?
Pull Windsor down? hæ, what?—a pretty job!
Windsor be pull'd to pieces by the mob!
Talk, talk of farming—that's your fort, d'ye see;
And, mind, mind, politics belong to me.
Go back, go back, and watch the Windsor chaps;
Count all the poultry: set, set well the traps.

‘See, see! see! Stacie —here, here, Stacie, here—
Going to market, Stacie?—dear, dear, dear!
I get all my provision by the mail—
Hæ, money plenty, Stacie? don't fear jail.
Rooms, rooms all full? hæ, hæ, no beds to spare?
What, what! give trav'lers, hæ, good fare, good fare?
Good sign, good sign, to have no empty beds!
Shows, shows that people like to see crown'd heads.’

The mail arrives ! hark! hark! the cheerful horn,
To majesty announcing oil and corn;
Turnips and cabbages, and soap and candles;
And, lo, each article great Cæsar handles!
Bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar, and mustard,
Small beer, and bacon, apple-pie, and custard:
All, all, from Windsor greets his frugal grace,
For Weymouth is a d*mn'd expensive place.

Sal'sb'ry appears, the lord of stars and strings;
Presents his poem to the best of kings.

Great Cæsar reads it—feels a laughing fit,
And wonders Sal'sb'ry should become a wit.

A batch of bullocks! see great Cæsar run:
He stops the drover—bargain is begun.
He feels their ribs and rumps—he shakes his head—
‘Poor, drover, poor—poor, very poor indeed.’
Cæsar and drover haggle—diff'rence split—
How much?—a shilling! what a royal hit!
A load of hay in sight! great Cæsar flies—
Smells—shakes his head—‘Bad hay—sour hay’—he buys.
‘Smell, Courtown—smell—good bargain—lucky load;
Smell, Courtown—sweeter hay was never mow'd.’
A herd of swine goes by!—‘Whose hogs are these?
Hæ, farmer, hæ?’—‘Yours, measter, if you pleaze.’
‘Poor, farmer, poor—lean, lousy, very poor—
Sell, sell, hæ, sell?’—‘Iss, measter, to be zure:
My pigs were made for zale, but what o'that?
Yow caall mun lean; now, zur, I caall mun vat—
Measter, I baant a starling—can't be cort;
You think, agosh, to ha the pigs vor nort.’
Lo! Cæsar buys the pigs—he slily winks—
‘Hæ Gwinn, the fellow is not caught, he thinks—
Fool, not to know the bargain I have got!
Hæ, Gwinn, nice bargain—lucky, lucky lot!’
Enter the dancing dogs! they take their stations;
They bow, they curtsy to the lord of nations;
They dance, they skip, they charm the k--- of fun,
While courtiers see themselves almost outdone.

Lord Paulet enters on his hands and knees,
Joining the hunts of hares with hunts of fleas .

Enter Sir Joseph! gladd'ning royal eyes!
What holds his hand? a box of butterflies,
Grubs, nests, and eggs of humming-birds, to please;
Noots, tadpoles, brains of beetles, stings of bees.
The noble president without a bib on,
To sport the glories of his blushing ribbon!

The fishermen! the fishermen behold!
A shoal of fish! the men their nets unfold;
Surround the scaly fry—they drag to land:
Cæsar and Co. rush down upon the sand;
The fishes leap about—Gods! what a clatter!
Cæsar, delighted, jumps into the water—
He marvels at the fish with fins and scales—
He plunges at them—seizes heads and tails;
Enjoys the draught—he capers—laughs aloud,
And shows his captives to the gaping crowd.
He orders them to Glo'ster Lodge—they go:
But are the fishermen rewarded?—No!!!

Cæsar spies Lady Cathcart with a book;
He flies to know what 'tis—he longs to look.
‘What's in your hand, my lady? let me know.’
‘A book, an't please your m---y.’—‘Oho!
Book's a good thing—good thing—I like a book.
Very good thing, my lady—let me look—
War of America! my lady, hæ?
Bad thing, my lady!—fling, fling that away.’

A sailor pops upon the royal pair,
On crutches borne—an object of despair:
His squalid beard, pale cheek, and haggard eye,
Though silent, pour for help a piercing cry.

‘Who, who are you? what, what? hæ, what are you?’
‘A man, my liege, whom kindness never knew.’

‘A sailor! sailor, hæ; you've lost a leg.’
‘I know it, sir—which forces me to beg.
I've nine poor children, sir, besides a wife—
God bless them! the sole comforts of my life.’

‘Wife and nine children, hæ?—all, all alive?
No, no, no wonder that you cannot thrive.
Shame, shame, to fill your hut with such a train!
Shame to get brats for others to maintain !
Get, get a wooden leg, or one of cork:
Wood's cheapest—yes, get wood, and go to work.
But mind, mind, sailor—hæ, hæ, hæ,—hear, hear—
Don't go to Windsor, mind, and cut one there:
That's dangerous, dangerous—there I place my traps;
Fine things, fine things, for legs of thieving chaps:
Best traps, my traps—take care—they bite, they bite,
And sometimes catch a dozen legs a night.’

‘Oh! had I money, sir, to buy a leg!’

‘No money, hæ? nor I—go beg—go beg.’—

How sweetly kind to bid the cripple mump,
And cut from other people's trees a stump!
How vastly like our kind Archbishop M---e ,
Who, hating beggar tribes at Lambeth door,
Of meaner parsons bids them ask relief—
There, carry their coarse jugs for broth and beef!

‘Mine Gote! your mashesty!—don't hear sush stuff:
De workhouse always geefs de poor enough.
Why make bout dirty leg sush wondrous fuss?—
And den, what impudence for beg of us!
In Strelitz, O mine Gote! de beggar skip:
Dere, for a sharity, we geefs a whip.
Money make subshects impudent, I'm sure—
Respect be always where de peepel's poor.’

‘How, sailor, did you lose your leg?—hæ, hæ?’

‘I lost it, please your majesty, at sea,
Hard fighting for my country and my king.’

‘Hæ, what—that's common, very common thing.
Hæ! lucky fellow, that you were not drill'd:
Some lose their heads, and many men are kill'd.
Your parish? where's your parish? hæ—where, where?’

‘I serv'd my 'prenticeship in Manchester.’

‘Fine town, fine town—full, full of trade and riches;
Hæ, sailor, hæ, can you make leather breeches?
These come from Manchester—there, there I got 'em!’
On which great Cæsar smacks his buckskin bottom.
‘Must not encourage vagrants—no, no, no—
Must not make laws, my lad, and break 'em too.
Where, where's your parish, hæ? and where's your pass?
Well, make haste home—I've got, I've got no brass.

Now to the Esplanade a seat is borne,
To ease the q---'s sweet bottom and her corn;
For corns are apt ev'n majesty to bite,
As well as on poor toes to vend their spite.

Around the gracious q--- of England, lo,
Dames of the bed-chamber, a goodly row!
Mob passing by, of majesty so fond,
Dipping, like ducks, their noddles in a pond.
How would this sight of Strelitz charm the soul?
A lofty land, although a spider hole!

Avaunt, all frail-ones, from the q---'s chaste view!
Pollution taints the air with such a crew!
Dare ye approach? full soon ye meet resistance;
Imhoff's pure wife shall shove you at a distance:
The east's proud empress, who, with di'mond wand,
Can visit the first lady of the land;
Nay, more, the chronicles of truth aver,
Can make the land's first lady visit her!

She comes! the majesty of this fair isle
Greets Mistress Imhoff with an ell-wide smile;
Bids her partake the radiance of a crown,
And, on the seat of Innocence, sit down.
Lo, down she sits! the mob, all envying, views,
As Mistress Imhoff whispers Indian news.
The Stadtholder! he joins Queen Charlotte—bump
Falls on the seat of royalty, his rump!
Peace to his spirit! he begins to doze!
He snores! heav'ns bless the trumpet of his nose!
So great is folly, that the world mayhap
Shall, grinning, point at Hoogen Moogen's nap.
Princes of Europe, pray exclaim not ‘shame!’
Go, for mankind's repose, and do the same.

My Lady H---e appears! how large!
Deep laden, like a camel, or a barge.
What's all beneath her petticoats?—Shawls, chintz—
Why should the muse, indeed, the matter mince?
Muslins the richest, of the fertile east.
Lo, back she moves again, to be undrest!
At Glo'ster-Lodge, upon the bed she squats,
To drop the lumber, shawls, and broider'd brats;
Where England's happy ------ her steps pursues,
Attends the labour, and turns accoucheuse.

Hark! Cæsar and the little children talk;
Together laugh, together too they walk:

The mob around admire their pleasant things,
And marle that children talk as well as kings.

And now to Delamot's the m---h speeds:
He catches up a score of books, and reads—
Learns nothing—sudden quits the book-abode—
Orders his horse, and scours the Dorset road.
He's in again; he boards the barge—sets sail—
Jokes with the sailors, and enjoys the gale:
Descants on winds and waves—the land regains,
And gives the tars just nothing for their pains!
For, what a bore that kings their slaves should pay!
Sufficient is the honour of the day!

Now springs the sov'reign wildly to the seas—
Rushes intrepid in—along to knees!—
Old Neptune, jealous of his world, looks big—
And blust'ring Boreas blows away his wig.

O Pye! amidst such doings canst thou sleep?
Such wonders whelping on the land and deep!
So nobly form'd to deck th' historic page,
Astonish man, and swell the muse's rage!

Thus, thus I sing of royalty unpaid;
In courts observe, and follow to the shade;
And mean, God willing, since thou wilt not write,
To give each word and action to the light;
With daily deeds my voice sublimely raise,
And sound wise speeches into distant days.
In spite of low Democracy, the brute,
Kings shall at length regain their lost repute.
The poor sunk falcon, robb'd of ev'ry plume,
That snaps the ground, and mourns his humble doom,
With powerful pinion soon from earth shall rise,
Mix with the solar blaze, and sweep the skies.

Such shall be done, if pow'r the bard can boast,
Who deems the breed too precious to be lost.
And since Augustus deign'd with bards to dine,
And, blest with bards, Mecænas drank his wine;

O let us hope that mighty modern kings
May cease to class the bards with vulgar things,
And of the tuneful tribe think somewhat higher,
Than Newgate's bellman, or a country crier !
Should this rare æra rise, and Brunswick's grace
Revive the drooping glory of his race;
How happy at St. James's, my friend Pye,
At Buckingham and Windsor, thou and I,
To see fair Genius re-assume her reign;
Dulness and Avarice expell'd the scene;
The fat'ning bards their laurell'd fronts display,
And proudly triumph over hogs and hay!

Once more then let me beg thee, lazy Pye,
To follow monarchs wheresoe'er they fly:
When, from the lofty pinnacle of thrones,
They sink, to tread, with vulgar folks, the stones;
To Weymouth waves, and sands, and shops repair;
Dash country Joans with dread, and bumpkins scare:
In laugh, and hop, and skip, and jump, and jest,
For ever trifling, and for ever blest.
How like the rustic boy, the simple thing,
Who only wish'd to be a mighty king
(So meanly modest was his pray'r to Fate),
To eat fat pork, and ride upon a gate!

Great has been the massacre among the sturdy oaks, to make room for the courtier-like pliability of the corn-stalk, that brings mere grist to the royal mill.

Be it recollected with horror, that a stone was flung at our beloved sovereign in St. James's Park, about two or three years past, endangering his life; yet an impudent rhimer thought otherwise; who, on the occasion, had the audacity to write the following epigram:

Talk no more of lucky escape of the head,
From a flint so unwittingly thrown:
I think very diff'rent—with thousands indeed,
'Twas a lucky escape for the stone.

Two tradesmen, who repair constantly from London to Weymouth, when royalty deigns to visit the spot.

The honest master of the Royal Hotel.

This mail-coach costs the public at least fifty pounds every day of the week (Sundays not excepted) during the king's residence at Weymouth—It is really a sutler's cart.

This high lord is really a high poet. His journey to Weymouth, which I was horribly afraid would have forestalled mine with the public, will make its appearance soon, and, I am informed, will be enriched, like my works, O marvelling reader! most elegantly bound at this time, and in the library, at Buckingham-house, with royal annotation.

The earl has won the royal smile, and is made a lord of the bed-chamber; but as capricious inconstancy is a prominent feature in the Brunswick family, a royal frown may be at no great distance.

Is not this sarcasm as applicable to thrones as hovels?

It is reported, but we hope falsely, that our metropolitan, as well as Mrs. M---e, are really tired with the number of poor creatures who, three times a week, have, from time immemorial, claimed the charitable donation of broth and meat from Lambeth Palace. It is moreover added, that a strong application has been made for the removal of this nuisance, but hitherto without success.

One of the Parklane triumvirate of sm*g*lers.

Never were the Αοιδοι, alias poets, in more disesteem than at the court of the Brunswicks. Homer, singing of such as were the greatest favourites of ancient monarchs mentions Ιητηρα Κακων, Τεκτονα, Δουρων, and Μαντιν, i.e. a doctor, a house carpenter, and a conjuror. These our beloved S---n, following this classical example of antiquity, has noticed and recommended: Doctor Willis, to parliament; Sir William Chambers, to the comptrollership of the board of works; and Signor Pinetti, to the patronage of all the conjurors of the metropolis.