ODE II.
Peter floggeth the Academicians and Dinner—Pitieth the Prince of Wales—Duke of Orleans, Duke Fitzjames, Count Lauzun, Lords Caermarthen and Besborough, &c.—and praiseth Mr. Weltjie—Exculpateth the President—Condemneth Sir W. Chambers and the Committee for their bad Management—Peter talketh of visiting the French King and the Duke of Orleans.
Whene'er academicians run astray,
Such should the moral Peter's song reclaim—
Of paint, this ode shall nothing sing or say,
My eagle satire darts at diff'rent game—
Against decorum I abhor a sinner;
And therefore lash the academic dinner.
Th' Academy, though marvellously poor,
Can once a year afford to eat:
By means of kind donations at the door,
The members made a comfortable treat:
Like gipsies in a barn around their king,
That annual meet, to munch, and dance, and sing.
A feast was made of flesh, fish, tarts, creams, jellies,
To suit the various qualities of bellies:
Mine grumbl'd to be ask'd, and be delighted;
But wicked Peter's paunch was not invited.
Yet though no message waited on the bard,
With compliments from academic names;
The Prince of Wales received a civil card,
His Grace of Orleans too, and Duke Fitzjames;
Count de Lauzun, and Count Conflan,
A near relation to the man,
In whose poor sides old Hawke once fix'd his claws,
Were welcom'd by the academic lords,
Either by writing or by words,
To come and try the vigour of their jaws.
Unfortunately for the modest Dukes,
The nimble artists, all with greyhound looks,
Fell on the meat with teeth prodigious able:
Seiz'd, of the Synagogue, the highest places,
And left the poor forlorn, their Gallic Graces,
To nibble at the bottom of the table.
There sat, too, my good Lord Caermarthen,
As one of the canaille, not worth a farthing!
But what can titles, virtues, at a feast,
Where glory waits upon the greatest beast?
To see a stone-cutter and mason
High mounted o'er those men of quality,
By no means can our annals blazon
For feats of courtly hospitality.
I've heard, however, one or two were tanners:
Granted—it doth not much improve their manners.
They probably, in answer, may declare,
They thought the feast just like a hunt;
In which, as soon as ever starts the hare,
Each Nimrod tries to be first in upon't:
The greatest, he, amidst the howling fuss,
Who first can triumph o'er poor dying puss.
Peters
most justly rais'd his eyes with wonder,
And wanted decently to give them grace;
But bent on ven'son and on turbot plunder,
A clattering peal of knives and forks took place:
Spoons, plates, and dishes, rattling round the table,
Produc'd a new edition of old Babel.
They had no stomach o'er a grace to nod;
Nor time enough to offer thanks to God:
That might be done, they wisely knew,
When they had nothing else to do.
His Highness
entering rather somewhat late,
Could scarcely find a knife, or fork, or plate:
But not a single maiden dish,
Poor gentleman! of flesh or fish!
Most wofully the pastry had been paw'd,
And trembling jellies barbarously claw'd:
In short, my gentle readers to amaze,
His Highness pick'd the bones of the R. A.'s.
O Weltjie
, had thy lofty form been there,
And seen thy Prince so serv'd with scrap and slop,
Thou surely wouldst have brought him better fare—
A warm beef steak, perchance, or mutton chop.
Thou wouldst have said, De Prence of Wales, by Got,
Do too mush honour to be at der feast;
Vere he can't heb von beet of meat dat's hot,
But treated vid de bones just like a beast.
De Prence, he vas too great to sit and eat
De bones and leafings of de meat;
And munsh vat dirty low-lif'd rogues refuse,
By Got! not fit to wipe de Prence's shoes!’
Great Besborough's Earl too came off second best;
His murmuring stomach had not half a feast;
And therefore it was natural to mutter:
To rectify the fault, with joyless looks,
His lordship bore his belly off to Brookes,
Who fill'd the grumbler up with bread and butter.
Sirs! those manœuvres were extremely coarse—
This really was the essence of ill-breeding:
Not for your souls could you have treated worse
Bum-bailiffs, by this dog-like mode of feeding.
Grant, you eclips'd a pack of hounds, with glee
Pursuing, in full cry, the fainting game—
Surpass'd them too, in gobbling down the prey:
Still great R. A.'s., I tell you 'twas a shame:
Grant, each of you the wondrous man excell'd,
Who beat a butcher's dog in eating tripe;
And that each paunch with guttling was so swell'd,
Not one bit more could pass your swallow-pipe:
Grant, that you dar'd such stuffing feats display,
That not a soul of you could walk away:
Still, 'midst the triumphs of your gobbling fame,
I tell you, great R. A.'s, it was a shame.
Grant, you were greas'd up to the nose, and eyes,
Your cheeks all shining like a lantern's horn,
With tearing hams and fowls, and giblet pies,
And ducks, and geese, and pigeons newly born:
Though great, in your opinion, be your fame,
I tell you, great R. A.'s, it was a shame.
This, let me own—the candour-loving muse
Most willingly Sir Joshua can excuse,
Who tries the nation's glory to increase;
Whose genius rare is very seldom nodding,
But deep, on painting subjects, plodding,
To rival Italy and Greece.
But pray, Sir William
what have you to say?
No such impediment lies in your way;
Genius can't hurt your etiquette attention;
And Messieurs Tyler, Wilton, and Rigaud,
Have you a genius to impede you?—No!
Nor many a one besides that I could mention.
This year (God willing) I shall visit France,
And taste of Lewis, Grand Monarque! the prog:
His Grace of Orleans, so kind, perchance,
May ask me to his house to pick a frog:
And yet, what right have I to visit there,
Who see a prince so vilely treated here?
Ye Royal Artists, at your future feasts,
I fear you'll make their Graces downright Daniels,
And as the Prophet din'd amongst wild beasts,
The dukes will join your pointers and your spaniels.
