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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| I. | LETTER I. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
LETTER I.
CONTENTS TO LETTER I.
A Lick at the City of London—the Cleanliness of the Londoners compared with Mr. Budge's Acquaintance in the Country, who admit Pigs and Poultry into their Parlours—The Population of London described by a stinking Comparison—Observation on the Ladies of London, with a wicked Suggestion of Mr. Budge—Mr. Budge imitateth Virgil in his fourth Eclogue to a Mister Pollio, who exclaimeth, ‘Paulo majora canamus’—Mr. Budge hinteth at the Middlesex Election—professeth to write the Truth, and nothing but the Truth—He complimenteth his Lordship on his great Connexions at Weymouth, and Powers of exciting royal Risibility—Mr. Budge entereth on the Subject of the Election—defieth Sir Francis Burdett, and maketh sure of Conquest—exulteth over Sir Francis, with a Quotation from the Devil to a Crab—
To write vrom theese perdigious town,
Vill'd with more sin than grace;
Learge az Jerusalem, I'm tould,
Aye, or az Babylon of ould,
Zo wonderzom the place.
And zo is Plimmoth ev'ry day—
The howzes high and big;
And in the parlours, too, zo neat,
Where all the gentry munch their met,
I've never zeed a pig.
With chicken rennin in and out,
Hunting about the room;
Nor goose-checks, no, nor gabbling ducks,
Flapping their wings all wet and mucks,
And quaakin vor a crume.
They be, they be, upon my word—
Fine clath upon the vloors;
Fine chairs, fine pectures 'pon the wall;
Fine glasses in the sarvants'-hall,
Brass locks upon the doors.
I do so look about and glaze,
Just leek a stinking hare;
And than the vokes!—Lord, what a heap!
Thick as the meggots 'pon a sheep—
I'm always in a fair.
Walking and gigling zo about,
All in their silks and lace;
And though zo fine, they make me stap,
Geeing my shoulder a small rap,
And zmiling in my face.
Thoose gentry may be bort and zold
Leek bullocks or leek sheep;
And thoff zo handzom, vor small pins,
One now and then mert buy their skins—
How wonderzomly cheap!
Vor now I'll screw my fiddle-strings,
Forsooth, a leet bit higher:
The vokes nere thoft that Middlesex
Would rear its head the curt to vex—
But the fat is in the vire.
I shaant be laughin in my sleeve,
And telling packs o'lees;
And yet, zo zur az I can spy,
From London people's mouths they fly
In swarms, like swarms of bees.
No soul shall zay it is not right—
They shaant zay no zich thing;
And if I tell the truth, and zo,
I'll gee ye leave, my lord, to show
My letter to the king.
You've zomething clever to'n to zay,
You be so wondrous frisky;
Vor when at Ex'ter , if you meend,
You often teel'd un all an eend
To laugh leek any pisky.
The curt voke wodn't gee a pin
T'ensure their man, Mainwaring;
When (who'd a thort it?) fath and soul,
Out leap'd Sir Francis vrom his hole,
And zot us all a staring.
Vor, sir, az zur as I've a heard,
We all shall ha our wish;
Burdett wull zoon look dev'lish blue,
And zo we shaant much meend the crew,
No more than stinking vish.
The curt hunth out the blind and lame,
And mainly stir their stumps;
Zo that I think the game is shor,
If Fortune is n't a d---d old wh---,
As we have got the trumps.
He can't succeed—he can't, he can't:
He conquer us, the scab!
He, that ne'er renn'd a race before;
‘Yes, you're a racer, to be sure,’
Cried the Devil to the crab.
In he, Lord, every body's trust is—
Burdett's a ratten meddler;
Volks shud tern round and zee their backs,
And meend old proverbs—Little packs
Become a little pedlar.
About his setting in the Howze;
But that, my lord's, a hum:
Zee how he beggth and stirth his zell—
A fellow must love bacon well,
To kiss the old sow's b---m.
The counting-howze his genius soots,
And there he may be saving;
There he may sheen, and be a king;
A handsaw is a useful thing,
But never made for shaving.
Doth ev'ry bit o'good he can,
Az ev'ry one believes;
Attendth the office very duly,
Never takth bribes—behaving truly,
And hangth a power o'thieves.
To zee that no rebellion rise,
And markth down all black sheep;
And thoose he dooth suspect, he zens
To Aris, to vill up his pens,
And there in clover sleep.
Approve their own poor ratten votes,
While ours they dare deny-all;
Cunning anew there—to secure ye,
A fox should not be of the jury
Upon a goose's trial.
Lord! what will all the country zay?
Why, that it gitt'th a rogue—
Burdett and Middlesex agree!
Agosh! a marriage it will be,
Between a cat and dog.
I've beed into mun gert and small,
Drink'd beer from ev'ry tap;
Mainwaring's health went always round,
With zich a noble clattering sound,
With zich a glorious clap!
They zet up zich a hallebulloo,
Close by the palace doors!
Just like a pack o'lyons roar'd,
They did, the dogs—they did, my lord,
The saucy sons of wh---.
I'd a made jobbernowls to ring,
And cool'd mun var ther bras;
The maids of honour should a got
In ev'ry hand a chumber pot,
And wash'd mun all leek shags.
Disgrace, too, to the English name,
To zet up zich a howl;
The soldiers shud a help'd the crown,
And shet mun just like sparrows down,
And sent mun to the Dowl.
Why then, it is, to my disarnin,
Good wine in filty flasks;
Or, if you please, my lord, good beer,
Zich as you brew in Devonsheer,
Put into stinking casks.
I daant know that my oaken stick,
Wull do much execution;
But zich as 'tis, they're welcome to't,
And with my oaken stick to boot,
Good-will and resolution.
With zom o'Burdett's rabble rout;
I'd quickly pug their guts:
I'd gee mun zich a lammin lick,
I'd make mun of elections zick;
I'd gee mun all the butts.
By gosh, my lord, I'll nack away;
I'll zoon be in their beef;
Now if I could Sir Francis meet,
All by his zelf, and in the street,
Dam un I'd whap the thief.
A pack o'saucy trumpery trosh,
That stiddy nort but treason—
On zich rare fellows let me looze,
Zoon as I'd kill a duck or gooze,
I'd sliver ev'ry weasen.
Iss, to the ground, I'd waage, I'd fell,
A dezzin to my share:
When I'm put to't, Dowl take my skin!
Life's not worth a grammar's pin—
I'm mad az a march hare.
I think that we shall make un daunce,
Or hugely I'm mistaken;
Agosh! az I zee metters go,
And perty well I simm to know,
The rogues waant save their bacon.
As vur's my judgment well could reach;
And what he cou'd, he dood;
He made poor work o'Cold-bath howze—
The trap that wishth to catch a mowze,
Shud never smell of blood.
What vokes palaver here and there,
All about 'Squire Pitt's disgrace:
Ah, Lord! poor disappointed fellow,
I daant believe he gitt'th zo mellow,
Not zince he lost his place.
Close by his howze, we chanc'd to meet:
‘Ah! Budge,’ zaid he to me,
‘How doth Lord Rolle do, by the bye?—’
‘Hearty's a farmer, sir,’ zaid I—
‘And how be you, sir—hæ?’
‘Thank God, that I be well enew,
Considerin ev'ry thing:’
He zaid it too in zich a way,
As plain as thoff I heard un zay,
‘Oh, Budge, I've lost the king.’
You and me play'd at put together,
The king would win the knave;
The queen, you know, cou'd do zo too—
Slam off a went, without more ado:
Nort could his bacon save.
Ev'n I, with my poor blinking sight,
Zee quite a diff'rent thing—
Vur there, agosh! 'tis not the same;
For there they backwards play the game,
And knaves can win a king.
Because you simm'd to leeke his ways,
Though by zum vokes abhorr'd—
You, to be shore, wan't let'n down,
Who did so worry the poor crown
To dub a gert lord.
I daant think we had got the wit
To get the pretty feather.
And let me zay t'ye, fath and soul,
You still had been but poor 'Squire Rolle,
Nether one thing nor tether—
Nor high, nor low, nor gert, nor small;
In short, what vokes call fudge.
And now, my lord, by the next post,
I'll write if things be winn'd or lost—
Your sarvant, Joseph Budge.
When his majesty did the city of Exeter the honour of a visit, Mr. Jan Rolle (afterwards his lordship) endeavoured to crack a few jokes in the royal presence, to display to the people his familiarity with crowned heads: one was most unsuccessful, as it carried stronger marks of impudence than wit; for, on introducing a country clergyman at the levee, ‘An please your medgesty,’ cried the 'squire, ‘Passon ---, a very good subject, and, leek your medgesty, hath made a howzevull o'cheldren.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |