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] |  |
TO THE CRITICS.
Now Winter gathers all his glooms,
And faintly Sol the world illumes;
Weak wand'rer, skirting pale the southern sky,
Yet squinting on the old blue road,
In summer with such splendor trod,
Now far, alas! above his wat'ry eye.
And faintly Sol the world illumes;
Weak wand'rer, skirting pale the southern sky,
Yet squinting on the old blue road,
In summer with such splendor trod,
Now far, alas! above his wat'ry eye.
Well! just as Winter comes, so drear,
Behold the man of rhimes appear!
Much like the woodcock—bird too often bit;
When out are dogs, and sportsmen dire,
To try to fit him for the fire;
Doom'd soon to turn, poor fellow, on the spit!
Behold the man of rhimes appear!
Much like the woodcock—bird too often bit;
When out are dogs, and sportsmen dire,
To try to fit him for the fire;
Doom'd soon to turn, poor fellow, on the spit!
Lo, from his shelt'ring shade he vainly springs!
With bleeding breast, crush'd legs, and broken wings,
And scatter'd plumes a cloud, and hanging head,
Down falls the emigrant, a lump of lead;
Soon seiz'd by Tray, expecting much applause,
Who, wriggling, brings the pris'ner in his jaws.
With bleeding breast, crush'd legs, and broken wings,
And scatter'd plumes a cloud, and hanging head,
Down falls the emigrant, a lump of lead;
Soon seiz'd by Tray, expecting much applause,
Who, wriggling, brings the pris'ner in his jaws.
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Thus may it most unfortunately be,
Most venerable greybeards, with poor me!
Condemn'd, for want of poetry and wit,
To turn perchance upon your piercing spit;
Most venerable greybeards, with poor me!
Condemn'd, for want of poetry and wit,
To turn perchance upon your piercing spit;
Yet, sirs, I thank you for all favours past;
Hoping, moreover, they won't be the last:
And, sirs, whatever fate you may allot me,
Thanks, thanks, that hitherto you have not shot me.
Hoping, moreover, they won't be the last:
And, sirs, whatever fate you may allot me,
Thanks, thanks, that hitherto you have not shot me.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |