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] |  |
POETA LOQUITUR.
Bold hast thou sworn—‘The muse I'll check;
Each, with a halter round her neck,
Shall sing with trembling, trembling dread;
Nay, should Apollo's song be sharp,
And on my power and glory harp,
Off goes at once the fellow's head:
Each, with a halter round her neck,
Shall sing with trembling, trembling dread;
Nay, should Apollo's song be sharp,
And on my power and glory harp,
Off goes at once the fellow's head:
‘I'll make a puddle of their streams,
That give the bards their pretty dreams;
And through the tuneful shades shall stray
My jack-asses , to graze and bray.’
That give the bards their pretty dreams;
And through the tuneful shades shall stray
My jack-asses , to graze and bray.’
393
Thou'rt an abominable branch:
No more shalt thou enjoy a haunch—
No more with Harry booze from night to morn—
The hackneymen, to thy amaze,
Shall cry, ‘My money for my chaise;
The money, sir, to pay for hay and corn!
Come, sir, I know what's what, and who is who;
I'll trust no longer—d*mn me, if I do.’
No more shalt thou enjoy a haunch—
No more with Harry booze from night to morn—
The hackneymen, to thy amaze,
Shall cry, ‘My money for my chaise;
The money, sir, to pay for hay and corn!
Come, sir, I know what's what, and who is who;
I'll trust no longer—d*mn me, if I do.’
See the stern shade of Chatham rise!
On thee he darts his eagle eyes!
‘Fool!’ cries the angry disappointed ghost:
‘Was it for this I show'd thy youth
The paths of glory, and fair truth?
Lo, by thy flagrant solly, all is lost!
Mad boy! instead of Wisdom's springs, to court
The Dozing fountain of Dundas's port.
On thee he darts his eagle eyes!
‘Fool!’ cries the angry disappointed ghost:
‘Was it for this I show'd thy youth
The paths of glory, and fair truth?
Lo, by thy flagrant solly, all is lost!
Mad boy! instead of Wisdom's springs, to court
The Dozing fountain of Dundas's port.
‘The wondrous column of my hand,
That push'd its head into the skies;
Shook by thy damned wizard wand,
Low! low! a splendid ruin lies!
Toads for a dwelling the poor pile invade,
And shelter'd weeds of death, the fragment shade.
Blush at the partners of thy toil,
The refuse of the groaning isle!’
That push'd its head into the skies;
Shook by thy damned wizard wand,
Low! low! a splendid ruin lies!
Toads for a dwelling the poor pile invade,
And shelter'd weeds of death, the fragment shade.
Blush at the partners of thy toil,
The refuse of the groaning isle!’
The Mathiases, the Giffords, the B---s, the C---s, &c. &c. Will it be credited that an administration so feeble should not have selected one tolerably literary pillar to support its imbecility? Where was Huntsman-Wyndham's judgment, when he made choice of hounds to run down opposition? Heavens bless us! Not one decent dog in the pack—neither nose nor speed—absolutely a parcel of yelping curs!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |