Anticipation or, The Prize Address; which will be delivered on the opening of the new Drury-Lane Theatre, by the manager, in the character of Peter Puncheon, a landlord. Now first published, for the sake of gratifying the impatient Curiosity of every Rank of Society. By Philomath Wizard, astrologer [i.e. John Wolcot] |
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 | Anticipation |  |
5
ANTICIPATION.
Ladies, and Gentlemen, I'm Peter Puncheon!
Welcome to dinners, suppers, or a luncheon.
First, let me swear, if such be your desire,
I never got one farthing by the fire.
Oons! dev'lish happy had I been, to catch
The rogue that pil'd the stuff, and plac'd the match;
He soon had suffer'd for his burning game,
That knave's fine carcase-fat had felt the flame.
So much to vice insurances persuade,
The burning system is a thriving trade.
The man to-night a beggar on his pillow,
To-morrow sports a curricle and villa;
For some folks can contrive estates to raise,
And find the road to fortune by the blaze.
(Applause.
Welcome to dinners, suppers, or a luncheon.
First, let me swear, if such be your desire,
I never got one farthing by the fire.
Oons! dev'lish happy had I been, to catch
The rogue that pil'd the stuff, and plac'd the match;
He soon had suffer'd for his burning game,
That knave's fine carcase-fat had felt the flame.
So much to vice insurances persuade,
The burning system is a thriving trade.
6
To-morrow sports a curricle and villa;
For some folks can contrive estates to raise,
And find the road to fortune by the blaze.
I've read in hist'ry, when a phœnix dies,
Behold, a second from its ashes rise:
Yet tho' a phœnix of inferior plume
To those that deck and honour now my room.
(Bows to the Ladies in all quarters.
Behold, a second from its ashes rise:
Yet tho' a phœnix of inferior plume
To those that deck and honour now my room.
Thus, from the ashes of my good old inn,
Another rises, neat as a new pin;
And if allow'd to boast in noble stile—
What say the Ladies?—“Yes”—I mark their smile.
(Loud applause.
Another rises, neat as a new pin;
And if allow'd to boast in noble stile—
What say the Ladies?—“Yes”—I mark their smile.
7
Lo, no expense is spar'd: the worst of beasts
Would Puncheon prove, to stint such glorious guests.
Would Puncheon prove, to stint such glorious guests.
Well, Gentry, welcome to our new-old Inn;
Well stock'd our cellars, full is ev'ry bin:
Old port, old hock, old cyder, and old perry;
But none of that neat article, Old Sherry!
Altho' well cork'd, and seal'd in quarts and pottles,
It bounc'd, too frisky, and broke all the bottles.
No wines of France are suffer'd to appear;
Such is my mind, I'd sooner swill small-beer.
No faithless Frenchman shall my purse maintain;
No burgundy for me, no pert champaign;
And sooner would I rent a cobweb garret,
Than see my patriot glasses blush with claret.
(More applause.
Well stock'd our cellars, full is ev'ry bin:
Old port, old hock, old cyder, and old perry;
But none of that neat article, Old Sherry!
Altho' well cork'd, and seal'd in quarts and pottles,
It bounc'd, too frisky, and broke all the bottles.
No wines of France are suffer'd to appear;
Such is my mind, I'd sooner swill small-beer.
No faithless Frenchman shall my purse maintain;
No burgundy for me, no pert champaign;
And sooner would I rent a cobweb garret,
Than see my patriot glasses blush with claret.
8
'Sbud! how I wish to meet with Emperor Nap,
And catch him at my bar, or at my tap!
I'd give him such a dose to warm his brain,
He should not, like parole-rogues, cross the main:
These hands should pull his pride imperial down,
And to a less than sixpence clip his crown:
Egad I'd make him look as sour, and sullen
As on his praams so knock'd about off Boulogne.
Poor fool, the puppet of poor foolish France,
The boastful hero of a French romance,
Not long the empire of the rogue will last—
A mere French puff—no more—a sudden blast—
And from his throne of gingerbread be hurl'd;
For He who holds the trident, rules the world.
(A thunder of applause.
And catch him at my bar, or at my tap!
I'd give him such a dose to warm his brain,
He should not, like parole-rogues, cross the main:
These hands should pull his pride imperial down,
And to a less than sixpence clip his crown:
Egad I'd make him look as sour, and sullen
As on his praams so knock'd about off Boulogne.
Poor fool, the puppet of poor foolish France,
The boastful hero of a French romance,
Not long the empire of the rogue will last—
A mere French puff—no more—a sudden blast—
And from his throne of gingerbread be hurl'd;
For He who holds the trident, rules the world.
9
Now, Gents, for quadrupeds—below my care:
I mount, no tutor to a horse, or mare;
I keep no stables, beans, or oats, or hay;
Such guests I freely leave to Marshal Neigh.
I mount, no tutor to a horse, or mare;
I keep no stables, beans, or oats, or hay;
Such guests I freely leave to Marshal Neigh.
Indeed I soar not from my humble station,
T'exert my genius on horse-education;
And yet I've often seen it come to pass,
A sage turn'd trav'lling tutor to an ass;
Nay too I've read, a rogue, to save his neck,
Once undertook to teach a jackass Greek.
T'exert my genius on horse-education;
And yet I've often seen it come to pass,
A sage turn'd trav'lling tutor to an ass;
Nay too I've read, a rogue, to save his neck,
Once undertook to teach a jackass Greek.
Then as for newspapers, not one shall enter;
I'll kick it to the devil that dare venture;
Scattering dank doubts and lies to get its meat;
Laughs at success, and glories in defeat;
Sports raven-paragraphs that croak distress,
And load with curses what is born to bless;
That tries each art to rouse to arms the million,
And rears the daring standard of rebellion;
Pours out its jokes as fast as hail, or faster,
And, demon-like, grows fat upon disaster;
Like toads, that feed (a miserable doom)
On the foul horrors of a dungeon's gloom.
Such rebel paragraphs, to atoms strike 'em!—
These are my politics—pray how d'ye like 'em?
(Many plaudits, and many hisses.
I'll kick it to the devil that dare venture;
Scattering dank doubts and lies to get its meat;
Laughs at success, and glories in defeat;
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And load with curses what is born to bless;
That tries each art to rouse to arms the million,
And rears the daring standard of rebellion;
Pours out its jokes as fast as hail, or faster,
And, demon-like, grows fat upon disaster;
Like toads, that feed (a miserable doom)
On the foul horrors of a dungeon's gloom.
Such rebel paragraphs, to atoms strike 'em!—
These are my politics—pray how d'ye like 'em?
Now, with your leave, a toast let me advance:
Health to Old England—ruin to New France!
(Much applause, and a few hisses.
Health to Old England—ruin to New France!
11
Well, now I'm giving healths, suppose I say,
Here's Wellington, the Marlborough of the day!
(Wonderful applause.
Here's Wellington, the Marlborough of the day!
Here's to his arms, whose hug each Frenchman feels,
And trusts his safety to his friends his heels.
(More applause
And trusts his safety to his friends his heels.
Here goes another toast—To General Hill!
To every Frenchman a most bitter pill;
Nephew of preaching Rowland, foe to evil—
Religion's champion—Cribb who mills the Devil;
Scares Beelzebub upon his blazing throne,
And rescues souls Old Nick believ'd his own.
(Applause.
To every Frenchman a most bitter pill;
Nephew of preaching Rowland, foe to evil—
Religion's champion—Cribb who mills the Devil;
Scares Beelzebub upon his blazing throne,
And rescues souls Old Nick believ'd his own.
Here's Graham too, and Stuart of high note!
Damn him who damns an Irishman or Scot!—
Damn him who damns an Irishman or Scot!—
12
But shall our navy be pass'd by? No, no,
While ale or porter down this throat can flow.—
St. Vincent, Cochran, Saumarez, Pellew,
And dauntless bravery of our British crew,
By whom such deeds of fortitude are done,
As make old Neptune tremble for his throne.
(Some applauses.
While ale or porter down this throat can flow.—
St. Vincent, Cochran, Saumarez, Pellew,
And dauntless bravery of our British crew,
By whom such deeds of fortitude are done,
As make old Neptune tremble for his throne.
Such are the heroes dough-fac'd Gallia fears,
Atoning for the C******s and G******s.
(A general hiss.
Atoning for the C******s and G******s.
Now let not our friend Whitebread be forgotten:
I'll drink his porter till my bones are rotten;
For mind me, Gentlefolks, (I do not frolick,)
I'll tip his stout altho' it give the cholic:
Whitebread—nice name—a name of fair renown;
May Whitebread never turn to black or brown!
Superior to the Commons, on his legs,
As tuns to hogsheads, quarter casks, and kegs.
Porter and Whitebread act two glorious parts:
One charms our palates, and one charms our hearts:
So soft his manner, such persuasive notes:
Should boobies doubt me, ask his Bedford votes.
I'll drink his porter till my bones are rotten;
For mind me, Gentlefolks, (I do not frolick,)
I'll tip his stout altho' it give the cholic:
13
May Whitebread never turn to black or brown!
Superior to the Commons, on his legs,
As tuns to hogsheads, quarter casks, and kegs.
Porter and Whitebread act two glorious parts:
One charms our palates, and one charms our hearts:
So soft his manner, such persuasive notes:
Should boobies doubt me, ask his Bedford votes.
By this blue apron, and this porter mug,
Which to my breast with gratitude I hug,
I swear his head upon my sign I'll put,
A quartern loaf, a dray-man, and a butt;
On this the world, the gaping world, will stare,
And wonder Whitebread never was Lord May'r:
Since fish and fowl
the civic honors gain,
Why not Sam's porter wear the golden chain?
Fish, fowl, and porter following each other
At ev'ry feast, amidst the hound-like pother.
Which to my breast with gratitude I hug,
I swear his head upon my sign I'll put,
A quartern loaf, a dray-man, and a butt;
On this the world, the gaping world, will stare,
And wonder Whitebread never was Lord May'r:
14
Why not Sam's porter wear the golden chain?
Fish, fowl, and porter following each other
At ev'ry feast, amidst the hound-like pother.
Tho' last, not least, the Regent Prince—proof spirit,
The shield of liberty, and friend of merit:
No flimsy gauze, but superfine strong cloth;
No trifle, no whip-syllabub, no froth:
His orb in glory has its course begun;
May equal splendour crown his setting sun!
The shield of liberty, and friend of merit:
No flimsy gauze, but superfine strong cloth;
No trifle, no whip-syllabub, no froth:
His orb in glory has its course begun;
May equal splendour crown his setting sun!
In borough-terms—I thank ye for this plumper,
Or, in the language of my bar, a bumper:
For this, may Heaven your kindnesses requite,
And may I get such custom ev'ry night!
Or, in the language of my bar, a bumper:
15
And may I get such custom ev'ry night!
Pray yield attention, and I finish soon.
What's jovial company, without a tune?
What is a merry meeting, without song?—
Come, catgut-scrapers, rasp, and tap the tongue;
Roar, roar away—“Britannia, rule waves,
“For freeborn Britons never will be slaves!”
[The music strikes up, accompanied by all the voices of the Theatre.
What's jovial company, without a tune?
What is a merry meeting, without song?—
Come, catgut-scrapers, rasp, and tap the tongue;
Roar, roar away—“Britannia, rule waves,
“For freeborn Britons never will be slaves!”
[_]
[After the song, the Author is honoured by being called for, in imitation of the French, to exhibit himself, and make his obeisance to the public.]
THE END.
| Anticipation | |