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

No more on a king or a queen,
Apple-dumpling, and smuggling so sweet;
Like their stomachs your wit shall be keen,
Hogs, hay, and fat bullocks, and wheat.

No more upon smugglers at court,
Mother Schwellenberg, bulses, and shawls;
Nor at levees and drawing-rooms sport,
Where man the poor sycophant crawls.

The meanness no more of high folk
In the rope of your satire shall swing;
For, behold, there is death in the joke
That squinteth at queen or at king.

Thus untax'd by your satire, my friends,
Courts smile at th' intended decree;
Thus the reign of poor ridicule ends,
And follies, like shawls, will go free.

118

Yes, Folly will prattle and grin
With her scourges Oppression will rise,
Since satire's a damnable sin,
And a sin to be virtuous and wise.

But wherefore not laugh at a------?
And wherefore not laugh at a------?
A laugh is a laudable thing,
When people are silly and mean.

When we paid civil list without strife,
When we paid the old quack for his cure,
When we pray'd at Peg Nicholson's knife,
The k---laughed at us, to be sure.

Ev'n the minions of courts will escape;
Dundas, Pitt, and Jenky, and Rose,
Yes, Satire gets into a scrape,
If she takes the four R---s by the nose.

No more must ye laugh at an ass;
No more run on topers a rig,
Since Pitt gets as drunk as Dundas,
And Dundas gets as drunk as a pig.

A laugh at a delegate hurts;
Yes, 'twere dangerous to hazard your sneers;
And mock the sweet mercy of courts,
That return'd him his forfeited ears.

Now farewel to fair Buckingham-house,
To Windsor, and Richmond, and Kew;
Farewel to the tale of the Louse!
Mother Red-cap, and Monarchs adieu!

Like ferrets, since all must be muzzled,
(And muzzled indeed we shall be!)
Say Pitt (for I'm grievously puzzled),
May we venture a horse-laugh at thee?

119

ODE TO AN INFORMER.

Now is the time, my friend—'tis now or never—
Help, help of government the bold endeavour;
So lately through a deep consumption rubbing,
Prerogative's upon his legs again!
He wields his knotty club with might and main,
For long the land has needed a sound drubbing!

Prerogative, ye Gods! will soon look fierce,
Hunt with his hounds the shops for prints and verse
And find the likenesses of men on high—
Make of the booksellers and bards a hash—
Smell rank rebellion in a star or dash,
And bid the sneering culprit hang or fly.

Whoever mentions pig, or goose, or pens,
Skim-milk, or corn, or man-traps, cocks, and hens,
Or Frogmore Fête, or charities, or bulse,
The turnkey soon shall feel the culprit's pulse.

Whoever says that majesty is rich,
Or calls Dame Schwellenberg a smuggling b---,
Or swears hypocrisy has dwelt in courts,
Blasphemes, speaks treason, and with edge tools sports.

Who says of Wimbledon a slighting word,
Where Pitt, the Punch of Showman Harry, steals
To learn state-tricks, behold the vengeful sword
O'ertaking soon the swiftest pair of heels!

Who mentions Richmond's courage, or his coals,
Must think upon the stock's ignoble holes.

Whoever christens but his dog, Tom Paine
(And many an itching tongue can scarce refrain),

120

The cur and master shall be brought to shame—
Nay, Tom, a common Christian name for cats,
Must die; and lo, the Hanoverian rats
Already lose the Hanoverian name.

The name Tom Paine, should ev'n a parrot cry,
Make out his mittimus, and let him die:
Strike me that bulfinch on the jaw,
That dares to warble ca ira.
God save the king, the world must sing or say;
God save the king, the ballad of the day!

Our dogs shall learn of royalty to bawl,
Our cats, from roof to roof, of Cæsar squall;
The beetles buz with loyalty along—
The very owl ‘God save the king!’ shall learn;
And barn, at midnight, hoot to brother barn;
And bat shall shriek to bat th' inspiring song.

What journeyman will dare to mention wages?
Who talk about the hardships of the poor?
Off with the villains to their iron cages,
Where whip-arm'd Justice guards the gloomy door.

Ev'n on a royal horse, or sheep, or cur,
Let subjects, if they dare it, cast a slur?
All that a palace holdeth smells of God:
A page's call is glory to our ears:
A cook's salute a load of honour bears;
Nay, honour dwelleth in a scullion's nod.

Shoot all those grumbling rascals, the dissenters,
And hang their hearts, like butchers meat, on tenters;
Fellows that fain would be court gospel-makers:
Impale the goat-fac'd, unbelieving Jews;
And then the knife of Justice to amuse,
Cut out the tongues of all the groaning quakers!

Return, return, ye glorious days agen,
When pow'r, the giant, muzzled tongue and pen;
Saw what the soul was thinking, through the eye,
And crush'd it for a treasonable sigh!

121

The voice of Liberty has roar'd too long!
Pull out the wide-mouth'd strumpet's lawless tongue!
Off with the wonted crown that decks her head,
And place the proper fool's-cap in its stead.

SECOND ODE TO AN INFORMER.

The great Poet inviteth a great Informer to great Wickedness!

R---, let thy soul enjoy the hour!
See Night her grisly spectres pour!
The clock proclaims her at her highest noon;
Lone silence shall our work befriend,
Her shoes of cygnet down shall lend;
The cloud's black mantle muffle the pale moon.

Newgate to brother Tower shall roar aloud:
‘So thick the pris'ners my dark dwelling crowd,
I cannot put a pin between the knaves;
‘And glutted too, am I, and I, and I.’
The Tow'r and echoing jails around reply—
‘And I, and I,’ each loaded compter raves.

The sated pillory shall roar:
‘I'm tir'd, I'm tir'd—can squeeze no more.’
The gibbet, surfeited with death, shall groan!
And, shuddering, lo, at human woes,
The tomb its pond'rous jaws shall close,
While Pity's fruitless tear embalms the stone.

122

Oh! would kind Night extend th' eternal shade,
And help in Murder's cause our panting breath!
For, lo! to Murder with his reeking blade,
The beam of morning seems the gloom of death.

Lo, where the innocents repose,
Our longing hands shall scatter woes,
And Fear shall whiten ev'ry haggard face.
Sly to the pillow will we creep,
Dash with rude arm the bonds of sleep,
And drag a husband from a wife's embrace.

In vain shall Terror lift the suppliant cry;
Our hearts, two rugged rocks, the sound defy.

Behold, behold a youth with muddled brain,
Reeling, the Lord knows where, a little drunk,
Perhaps to slumber with a fav'rite punk:
The rascal mutters Freedom and Tom Paine.

Soon, like a pair of eagles on a pig,
On this poor midnight stroller let us fall:
Drag him before the justice and his wig,
And swear to treason that he did not bawl.

This will be pleasant to our lords on high,
Who call the under-world of man,
An assish, mulish, packhorse clan,
Shreds of mortality, with scornful eye.

Look to the histories of ancient times,
Their pleasant prose, and tale-recording rhimes:
Kings were God's images—rever'd the throne:
Submission then, indeed, with eye-balls low'ring,
And suppliant hands and pray'r, and forehead cow'ring,
Spoke treason, if she call'd her soul her own.

Knock down the man who out of reason rules;
Believes that monarchs can be rogues and fools.
Virtues are transferable, just like stock,
With title-pass, that dignifies a block.

123

Title on ugliness confers a bloom—
Bids carrion drop its stench, and breathe perfume—
To palaces converts the meanest house,
And with an eagle's pinion, mounts the mouse.

Saddle black Despot for the field, so strong,
With such a spirit as no curb can tame:
His chest, like Job's wild horse, with thunder hung,
With mouth of bleeding foam, and eye of flame.

On Despot mounted, let us boldly ride,
And cover mountains with the crimson tide.

B--- and K---, men of busy merit,
Shall rouse to crush the democratic spirit,
And at the pris'ners shake their lion-manes;
And Curtis, now Lord-May'r, now not so small,
Shall fill with culprits soon th' Egyptian hall,
From hedges, ditches, alleys, courts, and lanes.

Justice shall find brisk work upon her hand:
Pronounce quick fate, and thin a miscreant land;
Thus lucky thriving, make, in blood campaigns,
A nabob's fortune, by her ropes and chains!

124

ODE TO JURYMEN.

Sirs, it may happen, by the grace of God,
That I, great Peter, one day come before ye,
To answer to the man of wig, for ode,
Full of sublimity, and pleasant story.

Yes, it may so fall out that lofty men,
Dundas, and Richmond, Hawk'sb'ry, Portland, Pitt,
May wish to cut the nib of Peter's pen,
And, cruel, draw the holders of his wit.

Nay, Dame Injustice in their cause engage,
To clap the gentle poet in a cage!
And should a grimly judge for death harangue,
Don't let the poet of the people hang.

What are my crimes? A poor tame cur am I,
Though some will swear I've snapp'd them by the heels;
A puppy's pinch, that's all, I don't deny;
But Lord! how sensibly a great man feels!

A harmless joke, at times, on kings and queens;
A little joke on lofty earls and lords;
Smiles at the splendid homage of court scenes,
The modes, the manners, sentiments, and words:

A joke on Marg'ret Nicholson's mad knights;
A joke upon the shave of cooks at court,
Charms the fair muse, and eke the world delights;
A pretty piece of inoffensive sport.

Lo, in a little inoffensive smile,
There lurks no lever to o'erturn the state,

125

And king and parliament! intention vile!
And hurl the queen of nations to her fate.

No gunpowder my modest garrets hold,
Dark lanterns, blunderbusses, masks, and matches;
Few words my simple furniture unfold;
A bed, a stool, a rusty coat in patches.

Carpets, nor chandeliers so bright, are mine:
Nor mirrors, ogling Vanity to please;
Spaniels, nor lap-dogs, with their furs so fine:
Alas! my little livestock are—my fleas!

No, sirs! I wish not to blow up the realm!
But thus I've pray'd—‘Her life may Albion keep!
Curs'd be the treach'rous fiends, who, at the helm,
Would sink the vessel in the gaping deep!

‘May Liberty sit firm upon her throne;
And he who dares to shake her, vengeance meet,
No matter what his grandeur—let him groan,
And Hell's best brimstone the black miscreant sweat!

‘No longer, like his dough, may our Lord May'r
Turn pliable, and join the busy Reeves—
State jackall hunting through the midnight air,
Like Bow-street blood-hounds in pursuit of thieves!

‘And should a judge (a Jefferies) rush to kill;
Fierce, like the Libyan savage from his den;
Their glorious pow'rs, at once, may juries feel,
And still sublimer, feel that they are men!

‘May Richmond's duke, of valour find increase,
And, by example, fire the soldier souls;
To invalids afford more frequent fleece,
And bless the veterans with meat and coals!

‘And may his Grace's fate-improving brains,
With guns of leather much old Death surprise;
Delight the tyrant with his dread campaigns,
And send his pale dominions vast supplies.

126

‘May Brudenell's head in sense and grace improve!
In mercy's balm may B---'s heart be rich—
Feel for a sheep-stealer a little love;
Whose fur-clad paws alike for mutton itch!

‘May Health, sweet Health, attend on civil list,
So very apt to sink in a decline:
Whom Doctor Pitt with med'cines can assist—
A great physician, whose prescriptions shine!

‘May kings and queens, whom much the muse reveres,
With wonted charity themselves comport;
And Lady Truth approach the royal ears,
And Lady Wisdom be receiv'd at court!

‘No more in courts may weeds of Folly thrive,
'Mid royal smile, their sunshine, waxing strong;
Or roaring laughter must be kept alive,
And Peter's Clio never want a song.

‘May ev'ry king be lov'd by all the arts;
And eke may all the arts be lov'd by him:
And when his money from the purse departs,
Not play at ducks and drakes on waves of whim,

‘Then for a ------, so lofty and so sweet,
Let not œconomy cry ‘Fie upon her!’
But may she give a pillow-case and sheet
To each poor slavish shiv'ring maid of honour!

‘Perdition seize the miser who denies
A pittance to the helpless pining poor;
Who, millions owning, still with watchful eyes,
Hawks at fresh bags of gold, and screams for more.

‘May yon Society ne'er want a head.
Just like a paper kite that wants a tail;
Now dipping, rising, wild at random led,
Up, down, here, there, the sport of ev'ry gale.

‘May curates eat, and rear their infant brood;
Nay put a little fat about their bones;

127

Cast from their wounded jaws the curb of blood,
And dash their lawn-sleev'd riders on the stones!

‘And may those lawn-men, born to happier fate,
Chase not the curate from their grand abode;
But gravely think of heav'n as well as prate,
And give a leg of mutton to their God!’

How base to preach of God's exhaustless store;
Of treasures that to mortals will be given;
Yet sooner trust (as though they thought it poor)
The bank of England than the bank of heav'n!

How vile to preach of Heav'n's large int'rest, too,
Seeming to place dependence on its word;
Yet on sky-credit look so very blue,
As though 'twere dang'rous lending to the Lord

Such is my song and fervent pray'r, and now
To Pitt, Dundas, and Jenkinson, I bow,
That spotless Trinity of courtly pow'r!
A democratic raven, turn'd court throstle!
A persecuting Paul, a meek apostle!
The foulest weed, the valley's fairest flow'r!

128

CRUMBS OF COMFORT FOR THE GRAND INFORMER.

Lord! R---! why, what a most unlucky chap!
What! thou a pris'ner in our hard state trap,
The roaring lion of administration!
Then Sheridan has nabb'd the beast at last;
Lock'd, in the iron gin of Justice, fast:
Fun for men, women, children of the nation!

R---, verily 'twas too barefac'd to say,
Saint Stephen's members might be shorn away,
And injure not the body—what a dream!
Nay, that our lords may feel alike the blade—
Those precious limbs, so shelt'ring with cool shade,
From Despotism's intolerable beam;
Lopp'd off, without an injury to trunk!
Say, great Informer, wert thou mad or drunk!

I ne'er said such rude things in all my life!
A joke upon a great man and his wife
Forms all my sin, though courtiers foam around:
I, with my pretty brazen pin and small,
Just scratch'd the pretty flow'ry capital;
But thou wouldst drag the column to the ground!

Pitt wishes to put forth his hand to save;
And giant Wyndham, too, his humble slave,
Sees thee with grief the tenant of the gin:
But London views thee with a scornful smile—
Hears with much glee thy howl, and marks thy toil,
And looks with triumph on thy suffering skin.

129

‘Is this the bat,’ cries London, ‘to devour
The simple flies, at midnight's silent hour,
Wheeling, with hunger keen, from street to street?
Is this the mousing owl, that darkling stole
In quest of harmless victims from his hole;
The bird obscene, whom now our mock'ries meet?

‘The imp, whose heart delights in Nature's sighs,
The eves dropper, with damned prying eyes,
Who hunts th' unwary for the fangs of state!
Is this the justice, of most foul report,
Who, proud to please the minions of a c---,
Unsated (a staunch blood-hound), pants for fate?

‘Is this the demon, the sworn foe of light,
Curs'd by the beauteous wanderers of the night,
Whose soul in Mis'ry's moan a music hears,
And toad-like, feeds its poison on her tears?

‘Is this th' Informer, that, with bellowing breath,
To whips and jails, each son of Freedom dooms;
Whose life (misnomer'd life) is death, rank death;
Putridity—the noisome stench of tombs?’

Such is the cry of London, luckless R---,
In language coarse!—not good enough for thieves!
Yet, man, despair not—Courts can set thee free—
And courts are known to pity r--- like thee.