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] |  |
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!
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!
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!
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.
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 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?
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?
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?’
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.
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |