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 ON MODERATION.
‘Some folks are mad, and do not know it,’
Says some one—I forget the poet;
And verily the bard was in the right.
Wild as a puppy chasing butterflies,
The world hunts Transport with keen nose and eyes:
Deceitful lass, who often proves a bite!
Says some one—I forget the poet;
And verily the bard was in the right.
Wild as a puppy chasing butterflies,
The world hunts Transport with keen nose and eyes:
Deceitful lass, who often proves a bite!
The calm, cool, philosophic hour;
The purling brook, the woodbine bow'r;
The grove's, the valley's sweet and simple song;
Morn's virgin blush, and Evening's setting ray,
On more than half the world are thrown away,
Whose joys must like a whirlwind pour along.
The purling brook, the woodbine bow'r;
The grove's, the valley's sweet and simple song;
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On more than half the world are thrown away,
Whose joys must like a whirlwind pour along.
Calmly let me begin and end Life's chapter;
Ne'er panting for a hurricane of rapture:
Calm let me walk—not riotous and jumping:
With due decorum, let my heart
Perform a sober, quiet part,
Not at the ribs be ever bumping, bumping.
Ne'er panting for a hurricane of rapture:
Calm let me walk—not riotous and jumping:
With due decorum, let my heart
Perform a sober, quiet part,
Not at the ribs be ever bumping, bumping.
Rapture's a charger—often breaks his girt,
Runs off, and flings his rider in the dirt.
Runs off, and flings his rider in the dirt.
Lo, when for Gretna Green the couple start,
Love plays his gambols thro' each throbbing heart:
Squeezing and hugging, kissing on they go;
Wild, from the chaise, they poke their heads to John,
‘Make haste, dear John, drive on, drive on, drive on,
Lord! Lord! your horses are so very slow!’
Love plays his gambols thro' each throbbing heart:
Squeezing and hugging, kissing on they go;
Wild, from the chaise, they poke their heads to John,
‘Make haste, dear John, drive on, drive on, drive on,
Lord! Lord! your horses are so very slow!’
And whilst, for Gretna Green, each turtle sighs,
The blacksmith seems an angel in their eyes.
The blacksmith seems an angel in their eyes.
But when this blacksmith has perform'd his part,
Possession quells the tumults of the heart;
The heart with foaming bliss no more boils over!
Now leisurely into the chaise they get!
They ask no John to drive, no horse to sweat;
No eye's keen sparkle shows the burning lover;
Possession quells the tumults of the heart;
The heart with foaming bliss no more boils over!
Now leisurely into the chaise they get!
They ask no John to drive, no horse to sweat;
No eye's keen sparkle shows the burning lover;
No kisses 'midst the jolting road they snap;
Cælia now takes a comfortable nap:
Down on her cheeks, her locks dishevell'd flow;
Not vastly smooth, but much like locks of hay;
Her cap not much resembling Alpine snow,
Shook from her rolling wearied head away.
Cælia now takes a comfortable nap:
Down on her cheeks, her locks dishevell'd flow;
Not vastly smooth, but much like locks of hay;
Her cap not much resembling Alpine snow,
Shook from her rolling wearied head away.
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The youth too, with his noddle on his breast;
His hair all careless, much in hay-like trim;
As though sweet wedlock's joys had lost their zest;
As though a dull indiff'rence damn'd the whim;
With mouth half shut, that heavy seems to say,
‘The Devil take the blacksmith and the day,
Who tied me to that trollop, now my wife,
Just like a jack-ass to a post, for life!’
His hair all careless, much in hay-like trim;
As though sweet wedlock's joys had lost their zest;
As though a dull indiff'rence damn'd the whim;
With mouth half shut, that heavy seems to say,
‘The Devil take the blacksmith and the day,
Who tied me to that trollop, now my wife,
Just like a jack-ass to a post, for life!’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |