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

Sweet is the Muse's voice to me!
Nothing so clever, nought more mighty,
For taking from the heart ennui,
The spleen, blue devils, tædium vitæ.
Sweet also is the sweet Cremona's tongue,
Making the hours dance merrily along.

But, ah! not sweet, indeed, to me,
Are sounds in Parliament from thee:
Through my whole frame such torpors creep—
I stretch, gape, yawn, and fall asleep.

Surely our men of worship should be wise,
Think deeply, and with speech surprise:
But titles only the mad million hails!
Just like bird-fanciers, heedless of the song,
Who ask what feathers to the birds belong,
That, bashaw-like, gain glory by their tails.

482

Thou deem'st thyself a first rate ship of war—
Inform one, H---k'sb---y, art thou mad?
What says each honest, grinning tar?
‘O, d---n my eyes! this is too bad!’
Then flings his quid away, and raves,
‘A goose-feather upon the waves!’

Now let me own, Jack's cat is much too smart:
'Mid the loud storm, and on the ocean's swell,
H---k'sb---y, I'll tell thee truly what thou art—
A simple cockle-shell!
Slipp'd from a stubborn rock into the sea.—
‘Ah!’ thou exclaimest, ‘who's that stubborn rock?
I wonder who that rock can be!’
Pitt! Pitt!—Lord, thou art stupid as a stock!

H---k'sb---y, amid this boisterous gale,
Since thou art mounted upon high,
On pinion wild, with dauntless eye,
Let me instruct thee with a tale.
'Tis of an owl,
A solemn fowl,
And very much conceited—much like thee:
Excuse this quaker-proneness to be free.

AN Owl, a bachelor of no great soul,
Nor intellect, but very, very proud,
The tenant of a little dirty hole,
Wish'd from obscurity to clear the cloud:
Yes, owl must have his sails unfurl'd,
And mount majestic on the world.

Close to his ivy-house liv'd Crow,
Who on his errands us'd to go.
‘Crow,’ said the Owl, upon a day,
‘I'm sick of solitude and gloom:
A bird of my deep sense and plume
Should mount amid the blaze of day.
In short, dear crow, I wish to wed,
And, mind me, take unto my bed

483

A bird of birth, the Eagle's daughter,
Miss Eaglet!’—‘Ah!’ replied the Crow,
Ready to split his sides with laughter,
‘Indeed! and are things really so?
Right, sir, to alter your condition—
O Lord! there's nothing like ambition!’

‘Well, Crow, you'll quickly seek the realms above,
With my proposals to the bird of Jove.’

Crow takes his leave, ascends the skies,
And to the Eagle's palace flies
The black ambassador from Owl;
Delivers his credentials to his grace,
With Auckland's diplomatic face,
Conceiving, like a penetrating fowl,
How politics would go above;
What answer leave the bird of Jove.

Thus spake the royal bird:—‘Sir Crow,
To my Lord Owl be pleas'd to go,
And tell him that I like the match:
I'm much oblig'd to him, indeed,
For honouring the Eagle breed:
I've been a good while on the watch
To throw a little lustre round my house:
Commend me to the thunderbolt of mouse.

‘Miss Eaglet is at his command—
Shall join his lordship in the straw;
Who such alliance cannot well withstand;
Happy to take him by the claw.
Bid him ascend sans cérémonie—free,
And pick his mouse to-day with me.

Off flew at once the sable fowl,
And quickly reach'd the house of Owl,
And told him all that he had seen and heard.
Owl instant comb'd, and wash'd his face,
Cut all his claws to such a grace,
Trimm'd all his feathers nicely—clipp'd his beard;

484

Bid to his humble hole good-night,
And rose amid the realms of light.

Mounted a mile or two, behold,
The sun's bright blaze of burnish'd gold
Flash'd on the owl's poor weak and watering eyes;
Just like a paper-kite, whose string
Deserting, leaves him on the wing,
To totter, dip, mount, fall again, and rise;
So shuffled Owl, lost, reeling, blind,
The sport of every gust of wind,
Till down he fell with phiz of woe,
The jest of ev'ry bird below.

Now, H---k'sb---y, tell the man of rhime,
How feelest thou thy flight sublime?
Thy weak eyes seem already winking.
Poor bird! I fear 'tis quickly over!
Yes, yes, already I discover
Symptoms of sinking.

Pitt's mouth may make a little blast—
The paper-kite comes down at last,
And sharply watching are we all;
And when laid flat upon the ground,
Thy paper stuff we shall surround,
And make us merry at thy fall!

Remember Icarus's height—
Perhaps the observation stings;
Thou shouldst have ask'd, before thy flight,
Dame Wisdom for a pair of wings.