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] |  |
ODE TO A COUNTRY HOYDEN.
Dear Dolly, stay thy scampering joints one minute,
And let me ask thee, mad-cap girl, a question—
Somewhat of consequence there may be in it,
That, probably, mayn't suit thy high digestion.
And let me ask thee, mad-cap girl, a question—
Somewhat of consequence there may be in it,
That, probably, mayn't suit thy high digestion.
Pray what's the meaning of the present glee?
To ride a nannygoat, or ass, or pig?
Or mount an ox, or ride an apple-tree,
And on the dancing limb enjoy a jig?
To ride a nannygoat, or ass, or pig?
Or mount an ox, or ride an apple-tree,
And on the dancing limb enjoy a jig?
Perhaps thou art infected with an itch
To plague a poor old crone, baptiz'd a witch;
To smoke her in her hovel—kill her cats,
Or lock her in, and rob her garden's peas,
Kick down the lame old granny's hive of bees,
And break her windows in, with stones and bats.
To plague a poor old crone, baptiz'd a witch;
To smoke her in her hovel—kill her cats,
Or lock her in, and rob her garden's peas,
Kick down the lame old granny's hive of bees,
And break her windows in, with stones and bats.
Perchance to rob an orchard thou may'st long,
Or neighbour's hen's-nest of its eggs, or young;
Nay, steal the mother-hen to boot:
Perchance thou hasten'st, fond of vulgar joys,
To tumble on the hay-cocks with the boys,
And let them take, at will, the sweet salute.
Or neighbour's hen's-nest of its eggs, or young;
Nay, steal the mother-hen to boot:
Perchance thou hasten'st, fond of vulgar joys,
To tumble on the hay-cocks with the boys,
And let them take, at will, the sweet salute.
Thou makest a long face, and answer'st thus—
‘Lord, then about a trifle what a fuss!
As though a body might not ride a pig,
Or nannygoat, indeed, or ox, good me!
Or our old Neddy , or an apple tree,
Just for one's health to have a little jig!
‘Lord, then about a trifle what a fuss!
As though a body might not ride a pig,
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Or our old Neddy , or an apple tree,
Just for one's health to have a little jig!
‘Or where's the mighty harm, upon my word,
In taking a few eggs, or chicks, or hen?
The farmers can't be ruin'd by't, good Lord!
Papa says that they're all substantial men.
In taking a few eggs, or chicks, or hen?
The farmers can't be ruin'd by't, good Lord!
Papa says that they're all substantial men.
‘Or where's the harm to ride upon a gate?
To snub one so, indeed, at such a rate!
I've tumbled from the trees upon the stones,
And never broke, in all my life, my bones:
See, sir, I have not one black spot about me!
'Tis cruel, then, for nothing thus to flout me.
To snub one so, indeed, at such a rate!
I've tumbled from the trees upon the stones,
And never broke, in all my life, my bones:
See, sir, I have not one black spot about me!
'Tis cruel, then, for nothing thus to flout me.
‘Or where's the mighty crime, I wonder, pray,
With cousin Dick to tumble on the hay?
Just like a baby with her doll you treat one!
Marry come up! why, cousin Dick won't eat one!
And then, forsooth, what mighty harm would come,
In having bits of fun with cousin Tom?’
With cousin Dick to tumble on the hay?
Just like a baby with her doll you treat one!
Marry come up! why, cousin Dick won't eat one!
And then, forsooth, what mighty harm would come,
In having bits of fun with cousin Tom?’
Dolly, thy artless answers force my smile—
I readily believe thee void of guile;
My lovely girl, I think thou mean'st no harm:
But had I daughters just like thee, let loose,
I verily should think myself a goose,
To mark each colt-like lass without alarm.
I readily believe thee void of guile;
My lovely girl, I think thou mean'st no harm:
But had I daughters just like thee, let loose,
I verily should think myself a goose,
To mark each colt-like lass without alarm.
Doll, get thee home, and tell mamma, so mild,
So fearful that a frown would kill her child,
That not ev'n birch to kill that child is able;
And tell thy father, a fond fool, from me,
To look a little sharper after thee,
Clip thy wild tongue, and tie thee to the table.
So fearful that a frown would kill her child,
That not ev'n birch to kill that child is able;
And tell thy father, a fond fool, from me,
To look a little sharper after thee,
Clip thy wild tongue, and tie thee to the table.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |