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

Why, where the devil are ye rushing?
Thus to St. James's rudely pushing,
To force the king to turn out Pitt, poor youth!
The open Jenkinson, the blushful Rose;
Dundas, too, on whom Heav'n bestows
Cart-loads of modesty and truth!

If aught I know of queens and kings,
Their graces will do no such things.
And who are you, in impudence so strong?
Know ye the rev'rence due to thrones?
Down, knaves, upon your marrow-bones,
As princes never yet were in the wrong.

Ye think ye make a king and queen
As Crispin makes a shoe, I ween;
And think, like humble shoes, too, ye may wear 'em:
Ye feel, by this time, I suppose,
That those same shoes can gall your toes,
And find your corns not much inclin'd to bear 'em:

Old Solomon, of wisdom the great king,
Declareth, there's a time for ev'ry thing—
Methinks he might have left out impudence:

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For who should have the impudence to say,
That liverymen, compos'd of common clay,
Should boast to sovereigns their superior sense;
Inform them that the ministers tell lies,
Are raggamuffins, wicked, and unwise?

Impertinence gets ground, I greatly fear;
Such things are said as I can scarcely bear:
With insolence the people tax poor Pitt;
Now this is cruel!—'tis the poor man's nature,
As natural as for fish to cleave the water,
Monkeys to grin, dogs howl, and cats to spit.

Whoever knew a Pitt that had humility?
Fling on the blood, then, all the culpability;
Since 'tis well known to all, that Pitt and pride
Are dove-tail'd—join as close as bones and hide!

The world abuseth Rose in language rude,
For ignorance and base ingratitude,
And meanness; but 'tis cruel thus to slash—
The man had never any education—
The poorest tag-rag of the Scottish Nation;
Born in a stye, and, hog-like, fed on wash.

For gratitude's a sentiment that springs
'Midst gentlefolks and nobles, queens and kings!
Like pine apples, whom soil the richest suits;
For pine apples ne'er grow on cold, raw clay,
But fat manure, amid the solar ray,
That darts its golden influence to their roots.

What impudence, alas! to say,
‘Sire, we resolve to have our way;
And be it known,
We'll have no levee-tricks, indeed,
And our petition we will read;
And you shall hear it on the throne!

‘This is our right by law accounted;
So pray your majesty get mounted.’

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Such is the saucy language ye have utter'd;
Which proves ye know not how your bread is butter'd.

At such rude treatment, grandeur winces!
So far I'll take the part of princes—
Monstrous! they have been scandalously treated;
Basted by saucy verse and prose—
God knows,
Dear souls! like bears by ruffian bull-dogs baited!

Poor Louis forc'd to run away,
Poor Artois, not inclin'd to stay,
From France, like some hard-hunted badger, hast'neth;
Now billetted upon the Scots;
Sad fates! yea, most unpleasant lots!
But whom the Lord doth love, behold he chast'neth!

Thus is the Bible in their favour;
Yet mis'ry breeds an ugly savour;
She smells of musty rags, and dirt, and nits—
I won't say bugs, and itch, and lice,
Wishing for ever to be nice,
As nicety a well-bred Muse befits:

And yet it is a truth most melancholly,
That mis'ry's often the weak child of folly.

Princes are blest with such a dove-like nature;
Their hearts compos'd of such nice ductile matter,
Turning like potter's clay to any forms!
But for their subjects!—heav'ns! their hearts are rock;
Their manners, borrow'd from the pig-stye, shock;
Their shapes, rank Calibans; their voices, storms!

Mild are the souls of princes, like new cheese!
And, like the cheese, of milk the simple child,
Too often suffer a confounded squeeze
From subjects by equality defil'd;
Who look with rapture on their grinning graces,
Enjoying their sad torments and wry faces.

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But why and wherefore, I can't tell the grounds;
No, verily, my wisdom can't determine,
Why subjects should become a pack of hounds,
And hunt their sovereign lords like stinking vermin;
For no one needs (I'm very sure) be told,
Their souls are cast in Nature's sweetest mould.

No, no; they are not polecats, pretty creatures!
Choke not the nation's chick, nor suck its eggs!
Pleas'd with whate'er is giv'n (such gentle natures),
Each prince with so much sweetness bows and begs!
No, never kite-like on a subject souses,
And, sweeping, carries off his lands and houses!

‘There's odds in gossips,’ says an old adage,
Forgotten, ah! in this degenerate age:
Subjects from fair decorum widely wander!
Now ev'ry tradesman lifts his dirty nose;
His teeth each working, poor mechanic shows,
And cries, ‘What's sauce for goose is sauce for gander!’

Thus, by the impudence of rogues and fools,
Are lofty thrones converted to joint-stools!
C--- christen'd fool's-caps—sceptres turn'd to sticks;
A ------ smile proclaim'd an idiot grin;
A ------ a jack-ass in a lion's skin;
Courts, puppet-shows; and rev'rence, monkey-tricks!

Tricks of a mean, submissive clan,
That shame the dignity of man.

There's not an Englishman, I do suppose,
That would not from his office kick poor Rose,
And on his honest earnings lay his pats;
Eke on Dundas's, Jenkinson's, poor souls!
And eke from humble Richmond tear his coals,
A king's black present to his blacker brats .

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Nor is there one who would not break, alack!
Our lord mayor's wooden leg about his back!

Thus is Politeness turn'd a clown—
Wisdom in gothic gloom benighted—
The world turn'd fairly upside down,
I fear me, never to be righted.

When such things are 'mongst cobblers, tinkers, tanners,
The Lord have mercy on the people's manners!
Then, sirs, no more your wanton venom spit
At kings and queens, and worthy Mister Pitt:
Should the ship founder in this blowing weather,
Like friends and neighbours, let us sink together.

Charles the Second's tax upon coals, for the benefit of his bastards.

138

II. PART II.

Think of old times, when royal folk
Made of their subjects a mere joke:
Ev'n in the happy days of good Queen Bet,
Mum was in parliament the word—
Her very frown, a flaming sword;
And ev'ry menace put it in a sweat!

Think of the horse-whipping she gave
Th' ambassador—a saucy knave!
In Latin, too, to make the fellow wonder—
The man was frighten'd at her voice,
And could not then have had his choice;
He rather would have fac'd a clap of thunder.

Of lords she often lugg'd the ear;
And often would her highness swear
On bishops, sacred men! enough to shock ye.
‘Do this!’ her majesty would say—
‘Do that!—God's blood! I'll have my way!
Quick, quick; or, d---n me, parsons, I'll unfrock ye!’

What to her parliament said she?
‘Good gentlemen, I must agree
That ye are proper judges of the weather,
And judges, too, of the highways,
Hares, pheasants, partridges, and jays;
And eke the art of tanning leather.
But, as for sovereigns, and dominion,
'Tis too sublime for your opinion.’

Suppose the liverymen had boldly said
To this Semiramis of lofty rule,
Your majesty must knock off Cecil's head,
And hang up Essex for a beast and fool:

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We relish not these men's administration;
So, ma'am, dismiss them, and oblige the nation:’—

What had the answer been
Of this great queen?

Why, to the apothecaries she had roar'd—
‘Ye knaves, who do more mischief than the sword!
You vomits, glyster-pipes—the dev'l confound ye!
What to such madness, raggamuffins, urges?
Murderers! I'll make you swallow your own purges!
In your own mortars, rascals, will I pound ye!

‘You, bakers, I shall heat your ovens, slaves,
And serve you like the three Jew boys, ye knaves,
Shadrach, and Meshech, and Abednego:
Browner than all your loaves, shall be your skins:
Then let us see, if, for your saucy sins,
Your God will deign to take ye out or no.

‘You poulterer, wag not thus your tongue so loose,
For fear I pluck ye, as ye pluck your goose.
And, Master Skinner, calm your upstart pride—
On Marsyas think your flaming rage to cool,
Who, wrestling with his betters, like a fool,
Lost, in his struggle for the prize, his hide!

‘And Master Barber, mind the beard and wig;
And Master Pipemaker, don't be a prig,
And let that clay of yours be quite so stiff;
Nor in your prowess try to smoke a queen,
For fear her majesty's sharp wrath be seen,
And send you to the devil on a whiff.

‘Leviathans be catechis'd by sprats!
Mind, if one more complaint ye bring,
By G---, ye dangle like a pack of rats,
All in a string!’

Thus to those men the great Queen Bess had said,
Bridling and tossing in contempt her head;
And thus the queen, with equal fury blest,
Had smartly rapp'd the knuckles of the rest.

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Then, turning to her marv'ling lords, her Grace,
Wiping the sweat that gemm'd her precious face,
Had said, ‘God's-blood, my lords, a fine discourse!
Those fellows talk to me—the small-beer dregs!
They teach, forsooth, their grannum to suck eggs!
They'll find the old grey mare the better horse.’

Then why should gentle George of pow'r have less;
Than that same furious Amazon, Queen Bess?

What said her loyal parliament again?
‘We must not move her grace's ire—
Lord, bless us! should we once complain,
The fat will all be in the fire!
Low to her feet, like spaniels, we must crawl,
Or, lo! she'll play the devil with us all!’

Now, to return to Pitt, ye roar,
‘Out with the rascal!—what a bore
To keep a fellow that undoes the realm!
A great land-lubber! he, he, steer
The foundering ship from danger clear!
Pretending puppy! he, he guide the helm?’

Not long ago, in paradise,
Ye stuff'd his mouth with figs and spice,
To show your love for him and all his schemes;
Drench'd him with treacle, till besmear'd
Like Aaron's patriarchal beard,
From whence the oil of gladness flow'd in streams.

His head with ev'ry grocer-glory crowning;
And now you are for kicking, hanging, drowning!
So different now, indeed, your carriage,
It puts me much in mind of marriage.

Now love, now hate; now smile, now tear;
Now sun, now cloud; now mist, now clear;
Now music, now a stunning clap of thunder;
Now perfect ease, now spiteful strife,
So much like matrimonial life!
Pray read the pretty little story under;
A tale well known:
'Tis John and Joan.

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JOHN AND JOAN,

A TALE.

Hail, wedded love! the bard thy beauty hails!
Though mix'd, at times, with cock and hen-like sparrings:
But calms are very pleasant after gales,
And dove-like peace much sweeter after warrings:

I've written—I forget the page, indeed;
But folks may find it, if they choose to read—
‘That marriage is too sweet without some sour—
Variety oft recommends a flow'r.

‘Wedlock should be like punch, some sweet, some acid;
Then life is nicely turbulent and placid.

‘A picture that is all in light—
Lord, what a thing! a very fright!
No, let some darkness be display'd;
And learn to balance well with shade.’

John married Joan—they frown'd, they smil'd;
Now parted, and now made a child:
Now tepid show'rs of love, now chilling snows;
Much like the seasons of the year;
Or like a brook, now thick now clear;
Now scarce a rill, and now a torrent flows.

One day they had a desperate quarrel
About a little small-beer barrel,
Without John's knowledge slily tapp'd by Joan;
For Joan, t'oblige her old friend Hodge,
Thought asking leave of John was fudge;
And so she wisely left the leave alone.
It happ'd that John and Joan had not two beds
To rest their angry, frowning brace of heads;

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Ergo, there was but one
To rest their gentle jaws upon.

‘I'll have a board between us,’ cried the man—
‘With all my spirit, John,’ replied the wife:
A board was plac'd, according to their plan:
Thus ended this barrier at once the strife.

On the first night, the husband lay
Calm as a clock, nor once wink'd over—
Calm as a clock, too, let me say,
Joan never squinted on her lover.

Two, three, four nights, the sulky pair,
Like two still mice, devoid of care,
In philosophic silence sought repose;
On the fifth morn, it chanc'd to please
John's nose to sneeze—
‘God bless you, dear!’ quoth Joan at John's loud nose.

At this John gave a sudden start,
And, popping o'er the hedge, his head—
‘Joan, did you say it from your heart?’
‘Yes, John, I did, indeed, indeed!’
‘You did?’—‘Yes, John, upon my word’—
‘Zounds, Joan, then take away the board!’

Thus it will be with you and Pitt agen;
Love will beam forth, that ev'ry love surpasses;
The grocers be themselves, sweet-temper'd men,
And souse him in a hogshead of molasses.
Thus will Contention take away the bone,
And you and Pitt kiss friends, like John and Joan.