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. | LETTER II. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
179
LETTER II.
CONTENTS TO LETTER II.
Mr. Budge proudly triumpheth in the Prospect of Success—is inclined to curse Sir Francis and his Party—is jealous of Mr. Fox, Lord William Russel, and Sheridan—describeth the Cavalcade—he is witty on the Virtues of the Patriots—Mr. Budge is violent towards the Ladies that wished well to the Cause of Sir Francis—Very ungallant is Mr. Budge indeed—he enumerateth the Duties of Women—Mr. Budge commenceth an Attack on the charming Duchesses that employed their Interest for Sir Francis—draweth a Comparison between the Duchesses and a great Lady and a great Man—He giveth an Account of an odd Fellow that came every Day, in a Lawyer's Dress, before the Hustings, and harangued the Counsellors of Mainwaring, viz. Sylvester and Maddox, and Mr. Mainwaring the worthy Candidate himself—Mr. Budge greatly hurt at the Exhibition of Irons, Whips, &c. the insignia of his Excellency Governor Aris, of the Cold-bath-fields Goal, commonly called the Bastille—he wisheth this Bastille the Fate of his great Brother and Predecessor of France—Mr. Budge displeased at his Treatment
by the Mob—The Aperture of Mr. Budge's loyal Mouth unfortunately filled with a Cabbage-stump—treated in a most ungentlemanly Manner—hustled—robbed—He reproveth the Mob—Mr. Budge's Conversation with one of the Mob, more consequential than edifying—Mr. Budge concludeth in a Strain of Exultation and Defiance, with less Sublimity than Isaiah on the Downfall of the King of Babylon, but with equal Rage and Abuse.
180
181
Things go on zwimmingly, my lord:
Dree hundred votes a head we've scor'd—
Dree hundred! aye, and more.
Had I ten thousand pounds, d'ye zee,
I wuddn't one brass vardin gee,
To make th' election shore.
Dree hundred votes a head we've scor'd—
Dree hundred! aye, and more.
Had I ten thousand pounds, d'ye zee,
I wuddn't one brass vardin gee,
To make th' election shore.
To help a lame dog, there's that Fox,
And there's Lord William, with a p---x,
And Sheridan the Devil—
Aye, let mun go—but poor Burdett
Wull vend to's cost, that zich a set
Wull gee his corn the wevil.
And there's Lord William, with a p---x,
And Sheridan the Devil—
Aye, let mun go—but poor Burdett
Wull vend to's cost, that zich a set
Wull gee his corn the wevil.
They ride to Brentford to harangue—
Lord! how I lang to shet the gang,
They make me look dam zour;
With gert good will vor theese black job,
I'd take my wetch out o'my fob,
And cuss mun by the hour.
Lord! how I lang to shet the gang,
They make me look dam zour;
With gert good will vor theese black job,
I'd take my wetch out o'my fob,
And cuss mun by the hour.
In coaches vull as they could stuff,
Damn mun, off zot the blue and buff,
Parading droo the Strand;
Zich holding up of derty paws,
Zich waving hats, and zich huzzas,
Enough to stun the land!
Damn mun, off zot the blue and buff,
Parading droo the Strand;
Zich holding up of derty paws,
Zich waving hats, and zich huzzas,
Enough to stun the land!
182
With mizzick, too, G*d d---n their bones,
Crowds, horns, and organs, with their groans,
Zich as we hear in charch;
Now, had they ax'd me vor a tune,
Well had Iss vitted mun, and zoon,
I'd gid mun the Rogue's March.
Crowds, horns, and organs, with their groans,
Zich as we hear in charch;
Now, had they ax'd me vor a tune,
Well had Iss vitted mun, and zoon,
I'd gid mun the Rogue's March.
Amongst the derty, lowzy crew,
There's zich a touse and hallibulloo,
Enew to stun ould Nick;
With zich a mob, too, to their tails,
Peek'd, I suppose, vrom all the jails,
Leek meggots all zo thick.
There's zich a touse and hallibulloo,
Enew to stun ould Nick;
With zich a mob, too, to their tails,
Peek'd, I suppose, vrom all the jails,
Leek meggots all zo thick.
Vokes talk a deal of Fox, Burdett,
And Sheridan, and make us sweat
To hear their lees —I doubt mun—
Zome cry mun up as thoff divine;
And if they do in manners shine,
I wish they'd carr't about, mun.
And Sheridan, and make us sweat
To hear their lees —I doubt mun—
Zome cry mun up as thoff divine;
And if they do in manners shine,
I wish they'd carr't about, mun.
Peepel should practise what they know;
Or where's the use of it, I trow?
No, no, I'm not the fool
To think that they have much to spare;
Vor he that goeth vor manners there,
Goeth to a goat vor wooll.
Or where's the use of it, I trow?
No, no, I'm not the fool
To think that they have much to spare;
Vor he that goeth vor manners there,
Goeth to a goat vor wooll.
The women, too, the bissy jades!
Zome o'mun gentlevokes, zome trades,
Push vore their polls from windors,
And toss their hankitchers about:
I wish I had the rabble rout
One minute in my grinders.
Zome o'mun gentlevokes, zome trades,
Push vore their polls from windors,
And toss their hankitchers about:
I wish I had the rabble rout
One minute in my grinders.
I'd gee the devils zich a squeeze,
I'd make mun look zo small as meeze ,
Well chow'd by our ould cat.
Iss, iss, I'd gee mun zich a grip,
I'd bang mun well, had I a whip,
I'll warrant mun vor that.
I'd make mun look zo small as meeze ,
Well chow'd by our ould cat.
Iss, iss, I'd gee mun zich a grip,
I'd bang mun well, had I a whip,
I'll warrant mun vor that.
183
Iss, iss, I'd make the madams squall,
I'd lerrick mun—iss, one and all—
I'd pent their pretty skins.
What bissens have they to rant and stare,
And hoist their nackens in the air,
And show their nasty grins?
I'd lerrick mun—iss, one and all—
I'd pent their pretty skins.
What bissens have they to rant and stare,
And hoist their nackens in the air,
And show their nasty grins?
What bissens ha wimmen wey election,
That should be always in subjection,
And know we be their lords?
Zwunds, let mun meend their howze and stitching,
And net be vor election itching—
We want none o'their words.
That should be always in subjection,
And know we be their lords?
Zwunds, let mun meend their howze and stitching,
And net be vor election itching—
We want none o'their words.
Their bissens is to wash and mend,
And car and vetch, and husbands tend,
Make puddins, pies, and tarts;
Zee that their maidens meend their broom,
To zweep the spiders, cleanse the room,
And wash the shefts and sharts.
And car and vetch, and husbands tend,
Make puddins, pies, and tarts;
Zee that their maidens meend their broom,
To zweep the spiders, cleanse the room,
And wash the shefts and sharts.
The ditchesses be mainly blamed;
Vokes zay they mert be all asham'd
To trollop with the men.
My lord, vor sartinty I know
Thoose ditchesses must never show
The nose at curt agen.
Vokes zay they mert be all asham'd
To trollop with the men.
My lord, vor sartinty I know
Thoose ditchesses must never show
The nose at curt agen.
If well they wud their zels demean,
Let mun take pattern from the ------,
That jewel o'a oman;
Zo good, zo generous to the nation;
Zo kind to ev'ry poor relation;
A thing zo main uncommon.
Let mun take pattern from the ------,
That jewel o'a oman;
Zo good, zo generous to the nation;
Zo kind to ev'ry poor relation;
A thing zo main uncommon.
In Windsor when there was zich bustle
About a member, zich a tussel,
Did she go round to vokes,
And zay, ‘If you daant vote for Powny,
Meend, not a vurdin of my money
Shall go to you vor smocks?’
About a member, zich a tussel,
Did she go round to vokes,
And zay, ‘If you daant vote for Powny,
Meend, not a vurdin of my money
Shall go to you vor smocks?’
184
Did she run round her zell, and maids,
To shopkeepers and wother trades,
And moil and make a fuss?
Zay to the mercer, ‘Maister Inkle,’
And to the vishman, ‘Maister Wrinkle,
‘You geef your vote for us.
To shopkeepers and wother trades,
And moil and make a fuss?
Zay to the mercer, ‘Maister Inkle,’
And to the vishman, ‘Maister Wrinkle,
‘You geef your vote for us.
‘We be great peeples, Maister Inkle;
We be rish peeples, Maister Wrinkle,
And haf a goote long puss;
And dan we haf grete pow'r, mine Gote!
Now dink 'pon diss, and give your vote,
Vid out more vords, vor us.’
We be rish peeples, Maister Wrinkle,
And haf a goote long puss;
And dan we haf grete pow'r, mine Gote!
Now dink 'pon diss, and give your vote,
Vid out more vords, vor us.’
Or did vokes hear zich zounds az thoose,
‘Must vote, must vote, mustn't refuse:
No, no—hæ, hæ—no, no,
Won't buy—won't buy a broom or mop—
Hæ, hæ, won't recommend your shop—
My borough—must, must be so.
‘Must vote, must vote, mustn't refuse:
No, no—hæ, hæ—no, no,
Won't buy—won't buy a broom or mop—
Hæ, hæ, won't recommend your shop—
My borough—must, must be so.
‘My borough this, hæ, hæ, Tape, Tape,
Shan't come and buy my coat a cape,
Shan't purchase at your shop—
Must vote for Powny—must, must vote,
Or mind I never buy a coat,
No, no, man—not one slop.’
Shan't come and buy my coat a cape,
Shan't purchase at your shop—
Must vote for Powny—must, must vote,
Or mind I never buy a coat,
No, no, man—not one slop.’
My lord, you tould me in your laast,
You wish'd to know 'bout all that past.
My lord now you shall hear:
A fellow, but we daant know who,
Belonging to the wother crew,
Com'd vore, and talk'd dam queer;
You wish'd to know 'bout all that past.
My lord now you shall hear:
A fellow, but we daant know who,
Belonging to the wother crew,
Com'd vore, and talk'd dam queer;
Com'd vore the hustins ev'ry day,
And leek a lawyer talk'd away,
In a lawyer's wig and gown;
Made our poor counsel cursed zick,
Tich'd Counsellor Maddox to the quick,
And nack'd Sylvester down.
And leek a lawyer talk'd away,
In a lawyer's wig and gown;
Made our poor counsel cursed zick,
Tich'd Counsellor Maddox to the quick,
And nack'd Sylvester down.
185
Zay'd to Mainwaring zich hard things,
Zwear'd that he was a tool o'kings,
And kiss'd the tail o'Pitt;
That az vor glory, or disgrace,
Az long as he could hold his place,
He did not care a nit.
Zwear'd that he was a tool o'kings,
And kiss'd the tail o'Pitt;
That az vor glory, or disgrace,
Az long as he could hold his place,
He did not care a nit.
That az vor Englishmen he thort,
'Twas best their commons should be short,
A gang of saucy knaves;
That geeves and whips, and little met,
Wud manners (what they wanted) get,
Full good enew vor slaves.’
'Twas best their commons should be short,
A gang of saucy knaves;
That geeves and whips, and little met,
Wud manners (what they wanted) get,
Full good enew vor slaves.’
The varmint
had got wit at will,
And gid the lawyers zich a pill,
Though a wasn't worth a shilling;
I must zay this, I vow to G*d,
A was zo comical a toad,
He zot us all a grilling.
And gid the lawyers zich a pill,
Though a wasn't worth a shilling;
I must zay this, I vow to G*d,
A was zo comical a toad,
He zot us all a grilling.
Maddox stood buff, and stood it out,
Though soundly pull'd, fath, by the snout
He veel'd zom ugly blows:
But poor Sylvester, he poor soul,
Just leek a mowze, sneak'd to his hole,
And never show'd his nose.
Though soundly pull'd, fath, by the snout
He veel'd zom ugly blows:
But poor Sylvester, he poor soul,
Just leek a mowze, sneak'd to his hole,
And never show'd his nose.
I wish your lordship had be there,
To zee the saucy dog, and hear
Zome lees, and zome things true;
His wit was leek a two-edged sword,
And I do really think, my lord,
He was a match vor you.
To zee the saucy dog, and hear
Zome lees, and zome things true;
His wit was leek a two-edged sword,
And I do really think, my lord,
He was a match vor you.
My lord, it nearly tern'd my brains,
To zee the vetters, whips, and chains,
They carr'd about the town;
Sound of Bastille mak'th menny quiver,
And petrifieth their very liver—
I wish the place was down.
To zee the vetters, whips, and chains,
They carr'd about the town;
Sound of Bastille mak'th menny quiver,
And petrifieth their very liver—
I wish the place was down.
186
Vor why?—becaze 'tis zich a name,
I shud not grieve to zeet in flame.
I'm cruelly afeer'd
The chains wull do the cause no good:
They push'd mun nearly as they coud
Up to Mainwaring's beard.
I shud not grieve to zeet in flame.
I'm cruelly afeer'd
The chains wull do the cause no good:
They push'd mun nearly as they coud
Up to Mainwaring's beard.
My lord, I daant leek Lendon ways:
Vor hap'ning 'mongst the mob to praise
Mainwaring—zounds, at once,
One scoundrel gid my tail a kick,
Anether, with a slammin stick,
Com'd souse upon my sconce.
Vor hap'ning 'mongst the mob to praise
Mainwaring—zounds, at once,
One scoundrel gid my tail a kick,
Anether, with a slammin stick,
Com'd souse upon my sconce.
'Tis true my pate was roundly maul'd:
I open'd than my mouth and bawl'd
Mainwaring and his cause;
Bevore I clos'd my mouth again,
A rascal ramm'd, with mert and main,
A colestump in my jaws.
I open'd than my mouth and bawl'd
Mainwaring and his cause;
Bevore I clos'd my mouth again,
A rascal ramm'd, with mert and main,
A colestump in my jaws.
And than they hustled me about,
Drode me along, the rabble rout,
And what was worse—odd chuck it!
Zoon as I got up vrom the ground,
Where I lied sprawling, Lord! I vound
The dogs had peek'd my pucket.
Drode me along, the rabble rout,
And what was worse—odd chuck it!
Zoon as I got up vrom the ground,
Where I lied sprawling, Lord! I vound
The dogs had peek'd my pucket.
My puckethankitcher and gloves
I neatly lost between their shoves—
Confound mun with a p*x!
A corkscrew and a penny bun,
And, ah! the worst of all the fun,
My poor old backy-box.
I neatly lost between their shoves—
Confound mun with a p*x!
A corkscrew and a penny bun,
And, ah! the worst of all the fun,
My poor old backy-box.
‘You ought to be asham'd,’ zaid I,
To one o'mun that stude close by,
‘To sarve one zich a trick.
‘Wud Ex'ter vokes ha sarv'd one zo?’
Quoth I to'n—‘no, they wud'n—no—
They'd zooner zee Old Nick.’
To one o'mun that stude close by,
‘To sarve one zich a trick.
‘Wud Ex'ter vokes ha sarv'd one zo?’
Quoth I to'n—‘no, they wud'n—no—
They'd zooner zee Old Nick.’
187
Zo then they laugh'd—'pon which, quoth I,
‘I'll tell my lord of this by'n by,
And zend ye all to jail.’
Quoth one, and winking with his eye,
‘What lord dost mean?’—‘Lord Rolle,’ zaid I;
‘He'll make ye drap your tail.’
‘I'll tell my lord of this by'n by,
And zend ye all to jail.’
Quoth one, and winking with his eye,
‘What lord dost mean?’—‘Lord Rolle,’ zaid I;
‘He'll make ye drap your tail.’
‘Lord Rolle,’ quoth he, ‘may come and kiss
‘My’—‘what?’ quoth I.—Quoth he, ‘Why this,’
And then he tack'd his rump.
Zaid I, ‘I'll tel'n o't, be ashor'd;
Dam me if I daant tell my lord,
And he shall make thee jump.’
‘My’—‘what?’ quoth I.—Quoth he, ‘Why this,’
And then he tack'd his rump.
Zaid I, ‘I'll tel'n o't, be ashor'd;
Dam me if I daant tell my lord,
And he shall make thee jump.’
Zo zays the rogue, ‘With all my soul,
And give my sarvice to Lord Rolle—
I've heerd a deal about'n.’
Zaid I, ‘No harm, ye dog, dost zee.’
‘No, nor no good, by G*d,’ zaid he.
Lord! how I lang'd to clout'n!
And give my sarvice to Lord Rolle—
I've heerd a deal about'n.’
Zaid I, ‘No harm, ye dog, dost zee.’
‘No, nor no good, by G*d,’ zaid he.
Lord! how I lang'd to clout'n!
But let mun bluster it away,
Let the poor jackasses all bray,
Their bacon waant be saa'd;
Their poverty is plain anew,
The devils wull zoon ha all the crew:
Bald pates be quickly shav'd.
Let the poor jackasses all bray,
Their bacon waant be saa'd;
Their poverty is plain anew,
The devils wull zoon ha all the crew:
Bald pates be quickly shav'd.
Stap, stap a leet, and we shall zee
Who will the lords and measters be—
They'll ha no cause to laugh;
There wull be bellowing enow,
Egosh! exactly leek a cow,
Just parted vrom her calf.
Who will the lords and measters be—
They'll ha no cause to laugh;
There wull be bellowing enow,
Egosh! exactly leek a cow,
Just parted vrom her calf.
188
POSSKREP.
WULL ye be pleas'd, my lord, to go,
Jest run to G--- L---, or zo,
You know 'tis but a stap;
And ax the sarvants, they can tell,
If any old cloaths they've got to zel,
Becaze I've got a chap.
Jest run to G--- L---, or zo,
You know 'tis but a stap;
And ax the sarvants, they can tell,
If any old cloaths they've got to zel,
Becaze I've got a chap.
Or candle-eends, or some zich thing,
Belonging to the ------ or ------,
Wud vet a perty penny.
Pray trat away, and ax my lord,
And be zo kind to zend me word,
My lord, if there be enny.
Belonging to the ------ or ------,
Wud vet a perty penny.
Pray trat away, and ax my lord,
And be zo kind to zend me word,
My lord, if there be enny.
I'm told old gowns, zome good, zome bad,
And cheap too, may zometimes be had,
Smocks, hankitchers, and shoes;
And wother sorts of ladies geer,
Little the worse, I'm told, vor wear,
That vokes may peek and chuse.
And cheap too, may zometimes be had,
Smocks, hankitchers, and shoes;
And wother sorts of ladies geer,
Little the worse, I'm told, vor wear,
That vokes may peek and chuse.
Pray go, and try your hand, my lord:
Ax lady ---, and zend me word,
Vor all I zay is true;
I want zome finery for my dame;
Zo that, my lord, I'll do the same
Vor Lady Rolle and you.
Ax lady ---, and zend me word,
Vor all I zay is true;
I want zome finery for my dame;
Zo that, my lord, I'll do the same
Vor Lady Rolle and you.
And could I get a king's old wig,
Lord! I shud look zo fine and big,
The parish wud zo stare!
And, as the man's upon the spot,
Ax Curnel Gwyn if he hath got
Zome babby-cloaths to spare.
Lord! I shud look zo fine and big,
The parish wud zo stare!
And, as the man's upon the spot,
Ax Curnel Gwyn if he hath got
Zome babby-cloaths to spare.
189
I think I have no more to zay,
But that my dame and I both pray
Vor yours and madam's soul;
And hopes (if we may crack a joke)
That Ex'ter and the Devonshire voke
May never want a Roll.
But that my dame and I both pray
Vor yours and madam's soul;
And hopes (if we may crack a joke)
That Ex'ter and the Devonshire voke
May never want a Roll.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |