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 VIII. TO PITT.
‘Blessed are those who nought expect,
For they shall not be disappointed;’
But thou didst hope a grand effect—
Great sighings from the Lord's anointed.
For they shall not be disappointed;’
But thou didst hope a grand effect—
Great sighings from the Lord's anointed.
Strong was thy hope that majesty would send,
Of terror full, to his good friend
Of Downing Street post-haste away,
Petitioning—‘Pitt, all is over,
‘The French will quickly land at Dover,
And no one to oppose and slay:
Of strength thou art a mighty tow'r:
Come, come, and all thy thunder pour;
Without thee, England meets her fate—
Haste, haste, and save a sinking state!’
Of terror full, to his good friend
Of Downing Street post-haste away,
Petitioning—‘Pitt, all is over,
‘The French will quickly land at Dover,
And no one to oppose and slay:
Of strength thou art a mighty tow'r:
Come, come, and all thy thunder pour;
495
Haste, haste, and save a sinking state!’
Such were a very flattering sound!
How had the echoes rung around!
But no such voice, alas! was ever heard!
No thunder roll'd, no tempest blew;
But easy quite as an old shoe,
Saint James's for thy loss appear'd.
Soft as a cat's, indeed, was thy retreat,
That moves down stairs upon her velvet feet.
How had the echoes rung around!
But no such voice, alas! was ever heard!
No thunder roll'd, no tempest blew;
But easy quite as an old shoe,
Saint James's for thy loss appear'd.
Soft as a cat's, indeed, was thy retreat,
That moves down stairs upon her velvet feet.
But prithee swallow, Pitt, a question,
That mayn't agree with thy digestion:
Where was the blush, the blush of shame,
When, to exalt the blind and lame,
Thou gav'st of eloquence that dainty dish?
Yet people will in answer say,
‘'Tis the world's way—
We never hear a man cry, “Stinking fish !”’
That mayn't agree with thy digestion:
Where was the blush, the blush of shame,
When, to exalt the blind and lame,
Thou gav'st of eloquence that dainty dish?
Yet people will in answer say,
‘'Tis the world's way—
We never hear a man cry, “Stinking fish !”’
A few of his fellow-labourers in the political vineyard, that remained after his expulsion. Mr. Pitt's eulogium on those rags of his administration produced a universal smile, even from his own party.
TO PITT,
IN CONTINUATION.
'TIS whisper'd thou wert turn'd to door,Most Job-like, very, very poor.
Poor man! poor man! ah, what a pity!
Farewell to dinners in the city!
Farewell to grocers ev'ry one—
Othello's occupation's gone!
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Witness the following little story.
THE SULTAN AND THE DOG.
A MIGHTY sultan of the east,
On ev'ry dainty used to feast:
(How different from the beggar and his bone!)
Who drank, too, Burgundy, I ween;
For ev'ry thing in style was seen,
Becoming one who sat upon a throne.
On ev'ry dainty used to feast:
(How different from the beggar and his bone!)
Who drank, too, Burgundy, I ween;
For ev'ry thing in style was seen,
Becoming one who sat upon a throne.
It chanc'd that war, all-pow'rful war,
So apt the wisest schemes to mar,
And change the master to the humble slave.
Fix'd on the sultan his steel claws,
Clapp'd an embargo on his jaws,
And words, hard words, instead of victuals, gave.
So apt the wisest schemes to mar,
And change the master to the humble slave.
Fix'd on the sultan his steel claws,
Clapp'd an embargo on his jaws,
And words, hard words, instead of victuals, gave.
The king was beat—to prison sent, in short—
Coarse was his fare, the coarsest sort:
A jug of milk was sent to him for dinner:
Enter a dog, who, while the king
Was musing on some lofty thing,
Stole slily to the milk, the thievish sinner;
Forc'd in his head, and lapp'd each drop, no doubt,
But could not get his head felonious out.
Coarse was his fare, the coarsest sort:
A jug of milk was sent to him for dinner:
Enter a dog, who, while the king
Was musing on some lofty thing,
Stole slily to the milk, the thievish sinner;
Forc'd in his head, and lapp'd each drop, no doubt,
But could not get his head felonious out.
So off, with his jugg'd jowl, the rascal ran.
The monarch, smiling, mark'd the theft,
And of his dinner though bereft,
With much good-humour thus began:
The monarch, smiling, mark'd the theft,
And of his dinner though bereft,
With much good-humour thus began:
‘Fortune's a fickle dame: but yesterday
A hundred camels scarce could bear
My quantities of kitchen-ware,
And now a cur can carry it away!’
A hundred camels scarce could bear
My quantities of kitchen-ware,
And now a cur can carry it away!’
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OH, with a disposition soft as silk,
So humble, affable, and mild;
Art thou reduc'd, too, to a jug of milk,
Sweet Nature's child?
Speak—Did the famish'd wolves, alas!
Eat all the flesh of the dead ass,
And leave thee nothing but the bones?
Say, hadst thou not the face to mump
One steak, from the poor nation's rump,
To calm gaunt Famine's hollow moans?
So humble, affable, and mild;
Art thou reduc'd, too, to a jug of milk,
Sweet Nature's child?
Speak—Did the famish'd wolves, alas!
Eat all the flesh of the dead ass,
And leave thee nothing but the bones?
Say, hadst thou not the face to mump
One steak, from the poor nation's rump,
To calm gaunt Famine's hollow moans?
Ah, me! we all are very poor;
Tax'd to the very eyes, I'm sure!
Where is the article that pays no duty?
Nought 'scapes!—not woman's fascinating beauty!
Tax'd to the very eyes, I'm sure!
Where is the article that pays no duty?
Nought 'scapes!—not woman's fascinating beauty!
Lo, many a little charming Phillis,
For vending roses sweet and lilies,
And love-inspiring, luscious, balmy kisses;
Although the growth of their own cheek;
Although the growth of their own neck;
Although the growth of their own lip, sweet Misses;
Are forc'd to bridewell's horrid fare,
For dealing in unlicens'd ware—
Spoil'd all their pretty hops, and skips, and glee,
Because the justice had not got his fee.
For vending roses sweet and lilies,
And love-inspiring, luscious, balmy kisses;
Although the growth of their own cheek;
Although the growth of their own neck;
Although the growth of their own lip, sweet Misses;
Are forc'd to bridewell's horrid fare,
For dealing in unlicens'd ware—
Spoil'd all their pretty hops, and skips, and glee,
Because the justice had not got his fee.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |