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

‘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.’

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!

‘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!

Flay half the academic imps alive!
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.’

‘Indeed,’ quoth I, ‘the piece hath points of merit,
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.”

Observe the saucy Israelite once more—
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.’

Thus Satire to the gentle poet cry'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.’

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.’

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.

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.

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.

Moses receiving the Law on Mount Sinai.

A picture by Mr. West.

Another picture by West.

In the Apotheosis, a picture by West.

A picture by Mrs. Cosway.

Rigaud.

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.

See Sir William Hamilton's account.