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

The Muses love thee dearly, Peter,
And eke the merry God of Metre,
Who gracious gave thee such a charming tongue:
We thought that age had quench'd thy fire,
Or law's rude hammer crush'd thy lyre,
Or royal whisper sooth'd the rage of Song;
Or pension chang'd thy harp's uncourtly strings,
And with her golden scissars clipp'd thy wings.

['Twas in that month when Nature drear]

'Twas in that month when Nature drear,
With sorrow whimpering, drops a tear,
To find that Winter, with a savage sway,
Prepares to leave his hall of storms,
And crush her flow'rs' delightful forms,
And banish Summer's poor last lingering ray;

'Twas in that season when the men of slop,
The Jew and Gentile turn towards their shop,
In alleys dark of London's ample round;
From Margate's handsome spot, and Hooper's-Hill,
And Dandelion, where, with much good-will,
Of butter'd rolls they swallow'd many a pound;

I too, the bard, from Thanet's pleasant isle,
Where, at a lodging-house, I liv'd in style,
Prepar'd with Gentile and with Jew to wander;
So pack'd up all my little odds and ends;
Took silent leave of all my Margate friends,
And sought a gallant vessel's great commander;
Who, proud of empire, rul'd with conscious joy
His wooden kingdom, call'd a Margate Hoy!

Lord! how my gaping readers long to know,
Which gallant vessel's valiant lord
(A natural curiosity, I trow!)
Hail'd the great poet and his trunk on board!
If Kydd, who nicks the passage to an inch,
Or he, his high and mighty rival, Finch.

THE PRAISE OF MARGATE.

Dear Margate, with a tear I quit this isle,
Where all seem happy—sweethearts, husbands, spouses:
On ev'ry cheek, where pleasure plants a smile,
And plenty furnishes the people's houses.

What's Brighton, when to thee compar'd!—poor thing;
Whose barren hills in mist for ever weep;
Or what is Weymouth, though a queen and king
Wash, walk, and prattle there, and wake and sleep?

Go bid the whiting's, the boil'd whiting's eye,
In brightness with the gem of Ind compare;
Or bid the skipping jack-o'-lantern vie
With heav'n's keen flash that lights the realms of air:

Go bid the humble thorn, the cedars ape,
That to the stars their tops sublimely spread;
Go bid a curate in his tatter'd crape,
Like Doctor Porteus lift the lofty head.

Bid Rose's Sun like Sol with lustre shine;
Or bid that thing, misnomer'd the True Briton,
Like brother papers, yield a decent line—
Poor dying imps, whom Truth and Genius spit on.

A great man, who deemed it politically necessary to create a couple of newspapers to vouch for his good deeds, and varnish others. The consumptive state of his two miserable bantlings, which George weakly imagined would prove to be a pair of Atlasses to support his world of character, gave birth to the following Ode of Condolence.

AN ODE OF CONDOLENCE TO GEORGE ROSE, ESQ.

On his two Newspapers, most unfortunately baptized ‘The Sun,’ and ‘The True Briton.’

FORBEAR thee, George, such whining, puling, sighing,
Because thy poor consumptive brats are dying—
By thee begotten,—how could they be strong?
So very like thyself in all their features!
Unhappy, miserable, dismal creatures,
The world now wonders they have liv'd so long.

What but insanity could well expect
Perfection from such radical defect?

What too thy reputation's wing will raise,
And with a bush of laurel deck thy name;
Lo! I, the sweetest bard of modern days,
Admiring, turn the Stentor of thy fame.

[Whate'er from dirty Thames to Margate goes]

Whate'er from dirty Thames to Margate goes;
However foul, immediately turns fair!
Whatever filth offends the London nose,
Acquires a fragrance soon from Margate air.

Ev'n Rose's news-hunters, his scandal-crimps,
Are chang'd to wits, so great are Margate-pow'rs;
Yes! his poor trumpeters, the noisy imps,
Become sweet Philomels, in Margate bow'rs!

The tailor here, the port of Mars assumes:
Who cross-legg'd sat in silence on his board—
Forgets his goose, and rag-besprinkled rooms,
And thread and thimble, and now struts a lord!

A sow's ear cannot make a purse of silk;
We cannot to a whale convert the shrimp.
What folly too to put out each poor imp
To nurses yielding not one drop of milk.

Then prithee for thy papers sigh no more—
So worthless, for oblivion they are ripe;
Peace to their slumber, as their date is o'er—
Peace to their ashes, as they light my pipe.

Here Crispin too forgets his end, and awl—
Here Mistress Cleaver with importance looks;
Forgets the beef and mutton on her stall,
And lights and livers dangling from the hooks.

Here Mistress Tap, from pewter pots withdrawn,
Walks forth in all the pride of paunch and geer;
Mounts her swoln heels on Dandelion's lawn,
And at the ball-room heaves her heavy rear.

Chang'd by their travels—mounted high in soul,
Here Suds forgets whate'er remembrance shocks;
And Mistress Suds forgetteth too the pole,
Wigs, bob and pigtail, basons, razors, blocks!

Here too the most important Dicky Dab
With puppy-pertness, pretty, pleasant prig
Forgets the narrow, fishy house of crab,
And drives in Jehu-style his whirling gig!

And here 'midst all such consequence am I
The poet! semper idem—just the same—
Bidding old Satire's hawk at follies fly,
To fill the shops of booksellers with game.

[Now, as our immortal Milton sublimely would have sung:]

With dewy gems adorning herb and flow'r,
Mov'd meek-eyed Evening on the western hills
With modest mien, and on the calm expanse
Of ocean's mirror look'd, and looking ting'd
Its heaving bosom with a roseate blush;
A blush empyreal!—

[Or, as the no less immortal author of Hudibras would have quaintly said;]

‘Now Madam Eve, with gown of pink,
Stepp'd down to Neptune's tap to drink,
Where Phœbus just before had been
At his old fam'd salt-water inn
(To end the labours of the day),
And give his horses, oats, and hay,
And bed, and clear their hoofs from gravel,
To fit them for next morning's travel.’

[Again, as the illustrious Butler would have said, or sung:]

Night, in her weeds, with bats and owls
(Her usual equipage of fowls)
Came forth! and changing colour, day,
(According to her vulgar way)

Like healthy felon's hang'd, alack!
Turn'd from deep red to dismal black.

[Thus oft it happens that the sky]

Thus oft it happens that the sky
Throws horrid glooms upon the eye;
Breeds clouds like malkins—old, black rags indeed!

The lands below look dismal, drear!
When suddenly, see Sol appear!
He pushes boldly through the dark, his head!
At once the shadows to his glories yield,
And cheerful radiance flies from field to field.

SONG.

[AGAIN we begin to be Britons, my boys]

AGAIN we begin to be Britons, my boys:
While united, success we command:—
Lo! each tar on the ocean a triumph enjoys,
And laurels shall cover the land.

Though surrounded by foes that in legions arise,
And cry for our ruin aloud,
The Genius of England their fury defies,
And bursts like the sun from a cloud!

May the king live for ever, the friend of our isle,
That revolts at the name of a slave;
Whose eye for fair Merit possesses a smile,
And a tear for the tomb of the brave!

No man to his mistress or wife will return,
And say:—‘I have fled from the foe;
My honour is gone, in the grave let me mourn
A disgrace that no Briton should know.’

France, the beggar shall be of the year fifty-eight,
When for mercy she put up her pray'r;
With nought but her perfidy left, and her spite,
And her pride, to console her despair.

The Spaniard too late shall his folly confess,
When his Indies no longer remain;
And the Dutchman, a frog in the days of Queen Bess,
Shall croak in his ditches again.

But how needless to talk of our prowess in war,
And proclaim what a universe knows!
Let Langara, De Grasse, and De Winter, declare
What it is to have Britons for foes!

CORINNA'S EPITAPH.

HERE sleeps what was innocence once, but its snows
Were sullied and trod with disdain;
Here lies what was beauty, but pluck'd was its rose,
And flung like a weed to the plain.

O pilgrim, look down on her grave with a sigh,
Who fell the sad victim of art;
Ev'n Cruelty's self must bid her hard eye
A pearl of compassion impart.

Ah! think not, ye prudes, that a sigh, or a tear,
Can offend of all Nature the God;
Lo! Virtue already has mourn'd at her bier,
And the lily will bloom on her sod.

SONG.

[WHEN William first woo'd, I said yes to the swain]

WHEN William first woo'd, I said yes to the swain,
And made him as blest as a lord—
For ye virgins around, in my speech to be plain,
That no is a dangerous word!
The girl that will always say no, I'm afraid,
Is doom'd by her planet to die an old maid.

The gentlemen seem one and all to agree,
That we're made of materials for kissing—
And if so, for I really believe it, good me!

What joys through one no might be missing!
Since the girl who will always say no, I'm afraid,
Is doom'd by her planet to die an old maid.

Say yes, and of courtship ye finish the toil—
Whole mountains at once ye remove—
You brighten the eyes of the swain by a smile,
For smiles are the sunshine of love?
Say yes, and the world will acquit you of art,
Since the tongue will not then give the lie to the heart.

THE WIDOW OF EPHESUS;

A TALE.

BALM are the sighs for breathless husbands shed!
And pearl the eye-drops that adorn the dead!

At Ephesus (a handsome town of Greece)
There liv'd a lady—a most lovely piece!
In short, the charming toast of all the town:
In wedlock's velvet bonds had liv'd the dame—
Yes! brightly did the torch of Hymen flame,
When Death, too cruel, knock'd her husband down.

This was indeed a lamentable stroke!
Prudentia's gentle heart was nearly broke!
Tears, pea-like trickle, shrieks her face deform—
Sighs, sighs succeeding, leave her snowy breast—
Winds, call'd hysterical, expand her chest,
As though she really had devour'd a storm.

Now, fainting, calls she on her poor dead love,
How like the wailings of the widow'd dove!

All Ephesus upon the wonder gaz'd!
Men, women, children, really were amaz'd.
'Tis true, a few old maids abus'd the pother—
‘Heav'ns! if one husband dies, why take another!’
Said they—contemptuous cocking up their nose:
‘Ridiculous enough! and what about?
To make for a dead husband such a rout!
There are as fine as he, one might suppose.

‘A body would presume, by grief so mad,
Another husband was not to be had;
But men are not so very scarce indeed—
More than are good, there are, God mend the breed!’

Such was the conversation of old maids,
Upon this husband's visit to the shades.

At length her spouse was carried to the tomb,
Where poor Prudentia mop'd amid the gloom.

One little lamp, with solitary beam,
Show'd the dark coffin that contain'd her dear,
And gave a beauteous sparkle to each tear,
That rill-like dropp'd—or rather like a stream.

Resolv'd was she amid this tomb to sigh:
To weep, and wail, and groan, and starve, and die—
No comfort! no! no comfort would she take:
Her friends beheld her anguish with great pain,
Begg'd her to try amusement, but in vain—
‘No! she would perish, perish for his sake!’

Her flaxen tresses all dishevell'd flow'd—
Her vestments loose—her tucker all abroad,
Revealing such fair swelling orbs of woe!
Her lids in swimming grief, now look'd on high,
Now downward droop'd, and now she pour'd a sigh
How tuneful, on her dear pale spouse below.

Who would not covet death for such sweet sighs,
And be bewail'd by such a pair of eyes?

It happen'd that a rogue condemn'd to death,
Resign'd (to please the law) his roguish breath;
And near the vault did this same felon swing:
For fear the rogue's relations, or a friend,
Might steal him from the rope's disgraceful end,
A smart young soldier watch'd the thief and string.

This son of Mars, upon his silent station,
Hearing, at night, a dismal lamentation,
Stole to the place of woe—that is, the tomb—
And, peeping in, beheld a beauteous face
That look'd with such a charming tragic grace,
Displaying sorrow for a husband's doom.

The youth most nat'rally express'd surprise,
And scarcely could he credit his two eyes:

‘Good God, ma'am!—pray, ma'am, what's the matter here?
Sweet ma'am be comforted—you must, you shall!
At times misfortunes, ev'n the best, befall—
Pray stop your grief, ma'am, save that precious tear.’

‘Go, soldier, leave me!’ sigh'd the fair again,
In such a melting melancholy strain,
Casting her eyes of woe upon the youth—
‘I cannot, will not live without my love!’
And then she threw her glist'ning eyes above,
That swam in tears of constancy and truth.

‘Madam!’ rejoin'd the youth, and press'd her hand,
‘Indeed you shall not my advice withstand;
For Heav'n's sake don't stay here to weep and howl!
Pray take refreshment!’ Off at once he set,
And quickly brought the mourner drink and meat;
A bottle of Madeira, and a fowl;
And bread and beer,
Her heart to cheer.

‘Ah! gentle youth, you bid me eat in vain!
Leave me! oh, leave me, soldier, to complain!
Yes, sympathizing youth, withdraw your wine!
My sighs and tears shall be my only food—
Thou knewest not my husband kind and good,
For whom this heart shall ever, ever pine!’

And then she cast upon the youth an eye
All tender! saying, ‘Soldier, let me die!’
And then she press'd his hand with friendship warm.
‘You shall not die, by Heav'n!’ the soldier swore;
‘No! to the world such beauty I'll restore,
And give it back again its only charm!’

Such was th' effect of her delicious hand,
That charm'd his senses like a wizard's wand;

‘What! howl for ever for a breathless clod!
Ma'am, you shall eat a leg of fowl, by G---!’

With that he clapp'd wine, fowl, bread, beer and all,
Without more ceremony, on the pall.
‘Well, soldier, if you do insist,’ quoth she,
All in a saint-like, sweet, complying tone,
‘I'll try if Grief will let me pick a bone!
Your health, sir.’—‘Thank you kindly, ma'am,’ quoth he.

As grief absorbs the senses, the fair dame
Scarce knew that she was eating, or yet drinking;
So hard is it a roaring grief to tame,
And keep the sighing, pensive soul from thinking.

So that the fowl and wine soon pass'd indeed—
Quickly away too stole the beer and bread
All down her pretty little swelling throat:
And now, whate'er philosophers may think,
Sorrow is much oblig'd to meat and drink,
Whose soothing virtues stop the plaintive note;

And, says the anatomic art,
‘The stomach's very near the heart.’

Prudentia found it so: a gentler sigh
Stole from her lovely breast—a smaller tear,
Containing less of anguish, did appear
Within the pretty corner of her eye;
Her eye's dark cloud dispersing too apace
(Just like a cloud that oft conceals the moon),
Let out a brighter lustre o'er her face,
Seeming to indicate dry weather soon.

Her tongue too somewhat lost its mournful style;
Her rosebud-lips expanded with a smile;
Which pleas'd the gallant soldier, to be sure—
Happy to think he sav'd the dame from death—
Yes, from his hug preserv'd the sweetest breath,
And to a wounded heart prescrib'd a cure.

Now Mars's son a minute left the dame,
To see if all went well with rogue and rope;
But ere he to the fatal gibbet came,
The knave had deem'd it proper to elope.

In short, attendance on the lady's grief
Had lost him his companion, the hang'd thief,
Whose friends had kindly filch'd him from the string.
Quick to the lady did the soldier run:
‘Madam, I shall be hang'd, as sure's a gun!
O Lord! the thief's gone off, and I shall swing!

‘Madam, it was the royal declaration,
That if the rogue was carried off,
Whether by soft means or by rough—
No matter—I should take his situation.

‘O Lord, O Lord! my fate's decreed!
O ma'am, I shall be hang'd, indeed!

‘O Lord! O Lord! this comes of creeping
To graves and tombs—this comes of peeping—
This is th' effect of running from my duty!
O curse my folly! What an ape
Was I, to let the thief escape!
This comes of fowl, and wine, and beer, and beauty!

‘Yet, ma'am, I beg your pardon too,
Since if I'm hang'd, 'twill be for you!’

‘Cheer up my gallant friend,’ reply'd the dame,
Squeezing his hand and smoothing down his face—
‘No, no, you sha'nt be hang'd, nor come to shame,
My husband here shall take the fellow's place—
Nought but a lump of clay can he be counted!
Then let him mount’—and, lo! the corpse was mounted;
Made a good thief—nay, so complete,
The people never smelt the cheat.

Now from the gibbet to the tomb again,
Haste, arm-in-arm, the soldier and the fair;
T'exchange for kisses, and the turtle's strain,
Sad hymns of death and ditties of despair.

THE DRUNKEN FLY.

POOR little reeling, thoughtless soul,
To tumble drunk into the bowl!
Death to thy thread had clapp'd his knife;
Go, wipe thy nose, and wings, and thighs,
And brighten up thy maudling eyes,
And thank the captain for thy life!

In future, get not quite so drunk!
Thy girl, perhaps, a lass of spunk,
May wish thy amorous pow'rs to prove;
And shouldst thou, drunk, the wanton chase,
Ebriety may bring disgrace;
And who would look a fool in love?

VERSES ON A FLY

That pitched on the Cheek of a most beautiful young Lady.

BY LORD SALISBURY.

HAPPY, happy, happy fly!
Were I you, and you were I!
But you will always be a fly,
And I remain Lord Salisbury!

Verses on the Fall of the Statue of Apollo from the Summit of the Organ, on the Head of Shield, as he was playing.

ON a day, on Shield's crown,
Apollo leap'd down,
And, lo! like a bullock he fell'd him!
Now was not this odd?
Not at all—for the god
Was mad that a mortal excell'd him!

POOR TOM.

NOW the rage of battle ended,
And the French for mercy call;
Death no more in smoke and thunder,
Rode upon the vengeful ball.

Yet, what brave and loyal heroes
Saw the sun of morning bright—
Ah! condemn'd by cruel Fortune
Ne'er to see the star of night.

From the main-deck to the quarter
Strew'd with limbs and wet with blood,
Poor Tom Halliard, pale and wounded,
Crawl'd where his brave captain stood.

‘O, my noble captain! tell me,
Ere I'm borne a corpse away,
Have I done a seaman's duty
On this great and glorious day?

‘Tell a dying sailor truly,
For my life is fleeting fast;
Have I done a seaman's duty?
Can there aught my mem'ry blast?’

‘Ah! brave Tom!’ the captain answer'd,
‘Thou a sailor's part hast done,
I revere thy wounds with sorrow—
Wounds by which our glory's won.’

‘Thanks, my captain! life is ebbing
Fast from this deep-wounded heart;
But, O grant one little favour,
Ere I from the world depart:

‘Bid some kind and trusty sailor,
When I'm number'd with the dead,
For my dear and constant Catherine,
Cut a lock from this poor head!

‘Bid him to my Catherine give it,
Saying, hers alone I die!
Kate will keep the mournful present,
And embalm it with a sigh.

‘Bid him too this letter bear her,
Which I've penn'd with panting breath:
Kate may ponder on the writing,
When the hand is cold in death.’

‘That I will,’ replied the captain,
‘And be ever Catherine's friend.’
‘Ah! my good and kind commander,
Now my pains and sorrows end!’

Mute towards his captain weeping,
Tom uprais'd a thankful eye—
Grateful then, his foot embracing,
Sunk, with Kate on his last sigh!

Who, that saw a scene so mournful,
Could without a tear depart?
He must own a savage nature—
Pity never warm'd his heart!

Now in his white hammock shrouded,
By the kind and pensive crew,
As he dropp'd into the ocean,
All burst out—‘Poor Tom, adieu!’

THE SHEPHERD'S PIPE.

LO! the pipe of poor Colin, mute, mute, how it lies!
No more to be swelled by his hopes, or his sighs!
‘Go, leave me!’ said he, ‘since unpriz'd by the fair.’
Then he wistfully flung it away in despair.

Who, like Colin, could give it of rapture the sound,
Which the echoes with rapture repeated around?
Or give it, like Colin, a soul to complain?
And who like the shepherd e'er gave it in vain?

'Twas here, at the peep of the morn, that he stray'd
To sooth with its music the ear of the maid!
'Twas here that he wak'd its sweet voice, to delight
(Not Philomel's sweeter!) her slumber at night.

But vain were his vows, and the voice of his reed;
The heart of poor Colin was fated to bleed!
See his grave! near yon tree his pale relics are laid,
'Mid the bow'r that he planted, of silence and shade.

Ah! blame not the nymph who was deaf to his tale,
Since her heart was betroth'd to a youth of the vale.
Come, virgins, we'll gather the flow'rs of the grove,
And strew on the victim of Sorrow and Love.

[Thus, as the flocks amid the valley feed]

Thus, as the flocks amid the valley feed,
Behold! the bellwether, the rover,
Like mortals, fickle, takes it in his head
To taste a neighbouring field of clover!
He dares th' opposing hedge, he beats it hollow—
Mounts, leaps, and all the tribes of fleeces follow!