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 |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
78
THE SORROWS OF SUNDAY:
AN ELEGY.
Mild was the breath of morn: the blushing sky
Receiv'd the lusty youth with golden hair,
Rejoicing in his race, to run, to fly;
As Scripture says, ‘a bridegroom débonnaire;’
Receiv'd the lusty youth with golden hair,
Rejoicing in his race, to run, to fly;
As Scripture says, ‘a bridegroom débonnaire;’
When, full of fears, the decent Sunday rose,
And wander'd sad on Kensington's fair green:
Down in a chair she sunk with all her woes,
And touch'd, with tenderest sympathy, the scene.
And wander'd sad on Kensington's fair green:
Down in a chair she sunk with all her woes,
And touch'd, with tenderest sympathy, the scene.
‘O hard Sir Richard Hill!’ exclaim'd the dame;
‘Sir William Dolben, cruel man,’ quoth she;
‘And Mister Wilberforce, for shame! for shame!
To spoil my little weekly jubilee.
‘Sir William Dolben, cruel man,’ quoth she;
‘And Mister Wilberforce, for shame! for shame!
To spoil my little weekly jubilee.
‘Ah! pleas'd am I the humble folk to view,
Enjoying harmless talk, and sport, and jest;
Amid these walks their footsteps to pursue,
To see them smiling, and so trimly drest.
Enjoying harmless talk, and sport, and jest;
79
To see them smiling, and so trimly drest.
‘Since the Lord rested on the seventh day,
Which showeth that Omnipotence was tir'd;
As Moses, in old times; was pleas'd to say,
(And Moses was most certainly inspir'd);
Which showeth that Omnipotence was tir'd;
As Moses, in old times; was pleas'd to say,
(And Moses was most certainly inspir'd);
‘Why should not man too rest?’ ‘No!’ cries Sir Dick:
‘At brother Rowland's let him knock his knees,
Pray, sweat, and groan; of this damn'd world be sick;
Of mangy morals crack the lice and fleas;
‘At brother Rowland's let him knock his knees,
Pray, sweat, and groan; of this damn'd world be sick;
Of mangy morals crack the lice and fleas;
‘Break Sin's vile bones—pull Satan by the nose;
Scrub, with the soap and sand of grace, the soul;
Give Unbelief, the wretch, a rat's-bane dose;
And stop, with malkins of rich faith, each hole:
Scrub, with the soap and sand of grace, the soul;
Give Unbelief, the wretch, a rat's-bane dose;
And stop, with malkins of rich faith, each hole:
‘Spit in foul Drunkenness's beastly mug;
Kill with sharp prayers, each offspring of the Devil;
Give to black Blasphemy, a Cornish hug;
And box, with bats of grace, the ears of Evil.’
Kill with sharp prayers, each offspring of the Devil;
Give to black Blasphemy, a Cornish hug;
And box, with bats of grace, the ears of Evil.’
Susan, the constant slave to mop and broom;
And Marian, to the spit's and kettle's art;
Ah! shall not they desert the house's gloom,
Breathe the fresh air one moment, and look smart?
And Marian, to the spit's and kettle's art;
Ah! shall not they desert the house's gloom,
Breathe the fresh air one moment, and look smart?
Meet, in some rural scene, a Colin's smile;
With love's soft stories, wing the happy hour;
Drop in his dear embraces from the stile,
And share his kisses in the shady bow'r?
With love's soft stories, wing the happy hour;
Drop in his dear embraces from the stile,
And share his kisses in the shady bow'r?
‘No!’ roars the Huntingtonian Priest—‘No, no!
Lovers are liars—Love's a damned trade;
Kissing is damnable—to Hell they go—
The Devil's claws await the rogue and jade.
Lovers are liars—Love's a damned trade;
Kissing is damnable—to Hell they go—
The Devil's claws await the rogue and jade.
My chapel is the purifying place:
There let them go to wash their sins away:
There, from my hand, to pick the crumbs of grace,
Smite their poor sinful craws, and howl, and pray.’
There let them go to wash their sins away:
80
Smite their poor sinful craws, and howl, and pray.’
How hard, the lab'ring hands no rest should know,
But toil six days beneath the galling load,
Poor souls! and then, the seventh be forc'd to go
And box the Devil, in Blackfriar's Road !
But toil six days beneath the galling load,
Poor souls! and then, the seventh be forc'd to go
And box the Devil, in Blackfriar's Road !
Heav'n glorieth not in phizzes of dismay;
Heav'n takes no pleasure in perpetual sobbing;
Consenting freely, that my fav'rite day
May have her tea and rolls, and hob and nobbing.
Heav'n takes no pleasure in perpetual sobbing;
Consenting freely, that my fav'rite day
May have her tea and rolls, and hob and nobbing.
In sooth, the Lord is pleas'd, when man is blest;
And wisheth not his blisses to blockade:
'Gainst tea and coffee ne'er did he protest,
Enjoy'd, in gardens, by the men of trade.
And wisheth not his blisses to blockade:
'Gainst tea and coffee ne'er did he protest,
Enjoy'd, in gardens, by the men of trade.
Sweet is White-Conduit House, and Bagnigge Wells;
Chalk-Farm, where Primrose-Hill puts forth her smile;
And Don Saltero's, where much wonder dwells,
Expelling work-day's matrimonial bile.
Chalk-Farm, where Primrose-Hill puts forth her smile;
And Don Saltero's, where much wonder dwells,
Expelling work-day's matrimonial bile.
Life with the down of cygnets may be clad!
Ah! why not make her path a pleasant track?
‘No!’ cries the Pulpit Terrorist (how mad!)
‘No! let the world be one huge hedgehog's back.
Ah! why not make her path a pleasant track?
‘No!’ cries the Pulpit Terrorist (how mad!)
‘No! let the world be one huge hedgehog's back.
Vice (did his rigid mummery succeed)
Too soon would smile amid the sacred walls;
Venus, in tabernacles, make her bed;
And Paphos find herself amid Saint Paul's.
Too soon would smile amid the sacred walls;
Venus, in tabernacles, make her bed;
And Paphos find herself amid Saint Paul's.
Avaunt Hypocrisy, the solemn jade,
Who, wilful, into ditches leads the blind:
Makes, of her canting art, a thriving trade,
And fattens on the follies of mankind!
Who, wilful, into ditches leads the blind:
Makes, of her canting art, a thriving trade,
And fattens on the follies of mankind!
81
Look at archbishops, bishops, on a fast,
Denying hackney-coachmen ev'n their beer;
Yet, lo! their butchers knock, with flesh repast;
With turbots, lo! the fishmongers appear!
Denying hackney-coachmen ev'n their beer;
Yet, lo! their butchers knock, with flesh repast;
With turbots, lo! the fishmongers appear!
The pot-boys howl with porter for their bellies;
The bakers knock, with custards, tarts, and pies;
Confectioners, with rare ice creams and jellies;
The fruiterer, lo, with richest pine supplies!
The bakers knock, with custards, tarts, and pies;
Confectioners, with rare ice creams and jellies;
The fruiterer, lo, with richest pine supplies!
In secret, thus, they eat, and booze, and nod;
In public call indulgence a d*mn'd evil;
Order their simple flocks to walk with God,
And ride themselves an airing with the Devil.
In public call indulgence a d*mn'd evil;
Order their simple flocks to walk with God,
And ride themselves an airing with the Devil.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |