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 |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. | ODE II. TO THE K---. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
479
ODE II. TO THE K---.
Written immediately on Mr. Pitt's Retreat from Administration.
An't please your m---y, I'm very glad,
And so are all of us (of late so sad)
That you have thrown the Jonas overboard,
See! see the drowning cat! he spreads his claws!
Quickly, for God's sake, sir, chop off his paws!—
He dies, by not a single sigh deplor'd.
To Davy Jones's locker let him go,
And with old Neptune booze below—
Bad stuff though, Neptune's mawkish brine!
He'd rather touch Dundas's wine.
And so are all of us (of late so sad)
That you have thrown the Jonas overboard,
See! see the drowning cat! he spreads his claws!
Quickly, for God's sake, sir, chop off his paws!—
He dies, by not a single sigh deplor'd.
To Davy Jones's locker let him go,
And with old Neptune booze below—
Bad stuff though, Neptune's mawkish brine!
He'd rather touch Dundas's wine.
Pitt, sir, has been a shocking steward,
And made us all, poor creatures, chew hard:
We scarce can put a mouse into the pot;
And yet he leaves behind, I fear,
Something that will not touching bear,
Like powder of a post that has the rot.
And Fame each day sings louder, sir, and louder,
‘State-pillars will be made of this same powder.’
Now rotten wood, according to my nouse,
Is bad material to support a house.
And made us all, poor creatures, chew hard:
We scarce can put a mouse into the pot;
And yet he leaves behind, I fear,
Something that will not touching bear,
Like powder of a post that has the rot.
And Fame each day sings louder, sir, and louder,
‘State-pillars will be made of this same powder.’
Now rotten wood, according to my nouse,
Is bad material to support a house.
Pitt deem'd himself an eagle—what a flat!
What was he?—a poor wheeling, fluttering bat—
An imp of darkness—busy catching flies!
Here, there, up, down, off, on—shriek, shriek—snap, snap—
His gaping mouth a very lucky trap,
Quick seizing for his hungry maw—supplies.
What was he?—a poor wheeling, fluttering bat—
An imp of darkness—busy catching flies!
480
His gaping mouth a very lucky trap,
Quick seizing for his hungry maw—supplies.
Pitt makes, 'tis true, a monstrous noise—
He who's seduc'd must be besotted.
The sound may fright the ears of boys—
A cannon's thunder, but not shotted.
He who's seduc'd must be besotted.
The sound may fright the ears of boys—
A cannon's thunder, but not shotted.
No farmer with more true delight
E'er saw a saucy, soaring kite
Fetch'd by a leaden messenger to ground,
Than we, when majesty thought fit,
And wisely too, to humble Pitt,
Headlong into the gulf profound,
Sunk him to hell—at least his lowest hell,
Where pride's prick'd bladder could no longer swell.
E'er saw a saucy, soaring kite
Fetch'd by a leaden messenger to ground,
Than we, when majesty thought fit,
And wisely too, to humble Pitt,
Headlong into the gulf profound,
Sunk him to hell—at least his lowest hell,
Where pride's prick'd bladder could no longer swell.
No farmer with a greater glee
Beholds a dying fox than we
Mark'd the last struggles of poor Billy Pitt.
On every visage see a smile!
Joy triumphs through the echoing isle!
Upon his name Posterity shall spit.
Beholds a dying fox than we
Mark'd the last struggles of poor Billy Pitt.
On every visage see a smile!
Joy triumphs through the echoing isle!
Upon his name Posterity shall spit.
Poor banish'd Liberty again
To Britain's fair and wide domain,
Shall bring her throne, her sacred throne:
The voice that long has learnt to mourn,
Shall hail with rapture her return,
And change for sounds of joy the hopeless groan.
To Britain's fair and wide domain,
Shall bring her throne, her sacred throne:
The voice that long has learnt to mourn,
Shall hail with rapture her return,
And change for sounds of joy the hopeless groan.
Well, sire, whatever be th' event,
You do things with the best intent;
Distress'd when Fortune mars a patriot plan:
And know, each true-born Briton sings,
‘Health and long life to virtuous kings!
We love the master, but detest the man.’
You do things with the best intent;
Distress'd when Fortune mars a patriot plan:
And know, each true-born Briton sings,
‘Health and long life to virtuous kings!
We love the master, but detest the man.’
481
POSTSCRIPT.
Sire! if your majesty so please,
And, sire, it may be done with ease,
I'll make a bargain.—Keep out Pitt for ever,
My song shall be the song of praise;
To kings an altar will I raise,
And never tear it down—no, never, never.
And, should it please th' Almighty to take Pye,
Sire, I'm your bard—your laureat—I—yes, I!
And, sire, it may be done with ease,
I'll make a bargain.—Keep out Pitt for ever,
My song shall be the song of praise;
To kings an altar will I raise,
And never tear it down—no, never, never.
And, should it please th' Almighty to take Pye,
Sire, I'm your bard—your laureat—I—yes, I!
I think this must be some temptation,
Considering my vast reputation.
Considering my vast reputation.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |