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] |  |
69
CÆSAR AND THE FOG.
CÆSAR, upon a summer's golden day,
Got early from his bed to smell his hay,
And see if all his fowls were safe and sound;
And likewise see what traps had legs and feet
Belonging unto men who wish'd to treat
Their chaps with chicken, on forbidden ground.
Got early from his bed to smell his hay,
And see if all his fowls were safe and sound;
And likewise see what traps had legs and feet
Belonging unto men who wish'd to treat
Their chaps with chicken, on forbidden ground.
Enter a general (Carpenter) low bowing,
Scraping, and, mandarin-like, nodding, ploughing
With nose of rev'rence sweet, the humble grass.—
‘Hæ, gen'ral, hæ? what news, what news in town?’
‘None, sire.’—‘None, gen'ral?—Gen'ral, hæ, none, none?’
‘Nothing indeed, O king, is come to pass.’
Scraping, and, mandarin-like, nodding, ploughing
With nose of rev'rence sweet, the humble grass.—
‘Hæ, gen'ral, hæ? what news, what news in town?’
‘None, sire.’—‘None, gen'ral?—Gen'ral, hæ, none, none?’
‘Nothing indeed, O king, is come to pass.’
‘Strange! strange! what, what—see nothing on the way?
Hæ, hæ?’ cry'd Cæsar, all for news agog.
‘Nothing, my liege—no, nothing I may say,
Excepting upon Hounslow, sir, a fog.’
Hæ, hæ?’ cry'd Cæsar, all for news agog.
‘Nothing, my liege—no, nothing I may say,
Excepting upon Hounslow, sir, a fog.’
‘Fog upon Hounslow, gen'ral?—large fog, hæ,
Or small fog, gen'ral?’—‘Large, an't please your sire.’
Or small fog, gen'ral?’—‘Large, an't please your sire.’
‘Strange, vastly strange!—what, large fog, large fog, pray?
Yes, yes, yes—large fog, that I much admire.’
Yes, yes, yes—large fog, that I much admire.’
Cæsar and Carpenter now talk'd of wars,
Of cannon, bullets, swords, and wounds, and scars:
When, in the middle of the fight, the king
Sudden exclaim'd—‘Fog upon Hounslow, hæ?
‘Large fog too, gen'ral?—well, go on, on, pray—
‘Strange! very strange!—extr'ordinary thing!’
Of cannon, bullets, swords, and wounds, and scars:
When, in the middle of the fight, the king
Sudden exclaim'd—‘Fog upon Hounslow, hæ?
‘Large fog too, gen'ral?—well, go on, on, pray—
‘Strange! very strange!—extr'ordinary thing!’
70
Now dwelt the gen'ral on the battle's rage,
Where muskets, muskets—guns, great guns engage,
Red'ning with blood the field, and stream, and bog;
When rushing from the murd'rous scene of glory,
The monarch sudden marr'd the gen'ral's story—
‘Fog upon Hounslow, gen'ral—large, large fog?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Carpenter unto the king—
‘Strange! very strange!—extr'ordinary thing!’
Where muskets, muskets—guns, great guns engage,
Red'ning with blood the field, and stream, and bog;
When rushing from the murd'rous scene of glory,
The monarch sudden marr'd the gen'ral's story—
‘Fog upon Hounslow, gen'ral—large, large fog?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Carpenter unto the king—
‘Strange! very strange!—extr'ordinary thing!’
At length the gen'ral finish'd—lucky elf!—
With much politeness, and much sweat and pain.
‘Thank God! thank God!’ he whisper'd to himself;
‘Curse me, if ever I find fogs again!’
With much politeness, and much sweat and pain.
‘Thank God! thank God!’ he whisper'd to himself;
‘Curse me, if ever I find fogs again!’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |