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

Thus sung the bard of old, and deem'd no fool,
‘Sweet are the uses of adversity;’
A dame who kicketh from your rump your stool,
And, savage, showeth not one grain of mercy t'ye;

Bids all your fancied-dearest friends turn tail;
Greets with wir'd whips, and blesses with a jail.

289

O mistress of this wisdom-teaching pain,
With Pill'ry, Gibbet, Famine, in thy train,
Go knock, God bless thee, knock at others' doors:
By all my fav'rite gods of prose and rhime,
I feel not thy philosophy sublime—
Go, seek the zealot who thy stripes implores.

Go, thunder on another's house thy strife;
Snatch from a husband's happy arms a wife;
Blot from his soul each glimm'ring ray of hope;
Rack all his lovely daughters with disease;
Poison his sons, and, more thy rage to please,
Present the fainting father with a rope.

But let me keep wife, children, peace, and land,
And learn thy lessons all at second hand.

My taste is dull—yes, vastly dull indeed!
I hate to see a brother mortal bleed—
I hate to hear a gentle nature groan,
And, goddess, more especially my own.

Yes, yes, Heav'n knows, my taste is more confin'd;
Prefers the zephyr to the howling wind;
Prefers too, such my star's unlucky blunder,
One hour's bright calm, to months of cloud and thunder.

Thou possibly may'st be a good physician,
But certés dost not know my weak condition.
Blisters, and scarifying, and spare diet,
Would set my nervous system in a riot;
Rich cordial drafts would answer best, I trow,
Made up by Messieurs Hammersly and Co.

Thine iron scourge would really act in vain,
So apt am I to make wry mouths at pain;
At disappointment much inclin'd to moan.
Whenever then, O goddess, things we see,
That with one's nature so much disagree,
Methinks 'twere better they were let alone.

290

To tumble from a house, or from a tow'r,
And break a luckless brace of legs and arms,
Would make one look most miserably sour;
Yet are there men, who deem all these no harms.

Then seek them, goddess—souse them on the stones,
And for their goodly comfort, crack their bones.

If in a well-stuff'd coach, well-overset,
A broken leg and thigh and arm I get,
I am not, I confess, of that pure leaven,
To crawl out on my hands and knees, and say,
Grace-like, ‘For what I have receiv'd this day,
I humbly thank thee, O most gracious Heav'n.’

O mistress of the terrifying mien,
The boatswain's deep-ton'd voice and brawny arm,
O be not within leagues of Peter seen;
Thy cat-o'-nine tails cannot, cannot charm.

A stupid scholar, goddess, I shall be;
Thy conversations are too deep for me.

Yes, madam, you are too sublime a dame
For Peter's company, I speak with shame—
A little winning wench contenteth me,
'Clep'd Fortune, a good-natur'd smiling lass,
Who constant lights my pipe, and fills my glass,
And makes my ev'ry day a jubilee.

This is the sweet companion for my money;
Such is the little Syren I desire—
Thou art all gall, and she all milk and honey;
'Tis at a distance I must thee admire.

A hawk-like appetite, and empty platters,
The bleak wind whistling through a coat in tatters,
The flight of fancied friends, a foe's abuses,
Are things for which my bowels do not yearn;
For rot me, madam, if I can discern
One atom of their several earthly uses.

291

Morality may wear a ruffle shirt,
I really think, and not his conscience hurt—
Morality may also like nice picking;
For since the great All-wise has giv'n us fowls,
Mankind were certainly a set of owls,
To dare to place damnation in a chicken.

Morality, I ween, may go well drest;
Keep a good fire, and live upon the best;
Throw by his wheel-barrow, and keep a carriage;
Visit the op'ra, masquerade, and play;
Drink claret, Burgundy, Champagne, Tokay;
Get fifty thousand with a girl in marriage.

To eat from splendid plate, or homely manger,
Methinks the soul is just in equal danger.

Besides, 'tis late, O goddess, in the day—
I'm not a subject fit for thee to flay;
To speak the truth, my nerves too nicely feel—
Go, search the motley mixture of mankind;
Some young enthusiast wild, thou soon mayst find,
Proud of thy whips, and glad to grace thy wheel.

So great for my own person is my love,
And hard thy lessons, I can't now begin 'em—
Besides, as I have hinted just above,
I'd rather read of battles than be in 'em.