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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| II. |
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| IV. |
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| IX. | ODE IX. TO PITT AGAIN. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE IX. TO PITT AGAIN.
Say, Pitt, dost thou so easy part
With pow'r, the idol of thy heart,
And, philosophic, yield to thy disgrace;
Leave Downing Street and stately rooms,
For secrecy and spectre glooms
Of solitary, poor Park Place;
To live within a little hole,
As melancholy as a mole?
With pow'r, the idol of thy heart,
And, philosophic, yield to thy disgrace;
Leave Downing Street and stately rooms,
For secrecy and spectre glooms
Of solitary, poor Park Place;
498
As melancholy as a mole?
Thou thoughtest we should all wear mourning,
Black, weeping all for thy returning—
All with white handkerchiefs to catch wet sorrow:
Ah! know there are not ten who care
Five farthings were they now to hear
That thou wert in a jail to-morrow.
Black, weeping all for thy returning—
All with white handkerchiefs to catch wet sorrow:
Ah! know there are not ten who care
Five farthings were they now to hear
That thou wert in a jail to-morrow.
Pitt, thou hast been in office long enough:
Yes, thou hast had a handsome swing;
Thy hide, too, like a bull-hide tough,
Has met, indeed, with many a sting,
Or dart, that must have kill'd all but the man
Whose modesty not only took our flour
(The conscientious miller of the hour),
But made its bow, too, to the bran:
Nay ready, too, upon its back,
To carry off the very sack!
Yes, thou hast had a handsome swing;
Thy hide, too, like a bull-hide tough,
Has met, indeed, with many a sting,
Or dart, that must have kill'd all but the man
Whose modesty not only took our flour
(The conscientious miller of the hour),
But made its bow, too, to the bran:
Nay ready, too, upon its back,
To carry off the very sack!
Suspended on a bit of steel,
Employ'd in sniggling,
A large and slippery eel,
The world seems glad to see thee wriggling.
Employ'd in sniggling,
A large and slippery eel,
The world seems glad to see thee wriggling.
How hast thou work'd for life and soul,
To slip again into thy hole!
Aye, gape, and writhe, and spread thy fin,
Poor Master Fish, you won't get in.
To slip again into thy hole!
Aye, gape, and writhe, and spread thy fin,
Poor Master Fish, you won't get in.
A bungling chemist, thou hast manag'd badly;
Manag'd the state-alembic sadly,
With all thy cunning and thy pains:
The finer parts are off! in air!
Howe'er thine ignorance may stare,
And nought but caput mortuum remains.
Manag'd the state-alembic sadly,
With all thy cunning and thy pains:
The finer parts are off! in air!
Howe'er thine ignorance may stare,
And nought but caput mortuum remains.
So much, Pitt, for our sublimed constitution,
The subject of thy fierce and ceaseless fires!
And, lo, by dint of time and resolution,
Thou hast well crucibled thy country 'squires;
And Mother Bank, the blindest of old crones,
Extracting heaps of gold from stocks and stones.
The subject of thy fierce and ceaseless fires!
And, lo, by dint of time and resolution,
Thou hast well crucibled thy country 'squires;
499
Extracting heaps of gold from stocks and stones.
When ye began this righteous war,
Where was your tutelary star?
Ye never dreamt of danger till too late.
‘A war with France! oh, that's soon o'er;
A fox-chase, fox-chase, nothing more;
Fun, fun—just coursing a poor hare, or cat.’
Where was your tutelary star?
Ye never dreamt of danger till too late.
‘A war with France! oh, that's soon o'er;
A fox-chase, fox-chase, nothing more;
Fun, fun—just coursing a poor hare, or cat.’
Such was your speech: but, sir, it doth appear,
That this same cat is now become a bear,
Whose claws have lately held you snug,
And giv'n a cursed Cornish hug.
That this same cat is now become a bear,
Whose claws have lately held you snug,
And giv'n a cursed Cornish hug.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |