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

Stay but a little month or so,
Your fondness will be much abated;
Ev'n your own hands will overthrow
The idol that ye have created;
No more your pyramid supports its rat—
Your tiger dwindles to a mangy cat.

223

So then, messieurs, ye men of loans,
Who eat our flesh, and gnaw our bones
Clean as a dog would pick them, all so white
With goodly gratitude ye look
To your great friend, the old state cook,
And kindly offer him your mite
To rear a statue to support his fame,
On crutches hobbling—rotten, lank, and lame.

'Tis very kind in ye, I'm sure,
Yet 'tis but rouge on an old w---,
That can't conceal the wrinkles and the scab:
The nation's eyes are vastly clear;
Their scrutinizing pow'r severe,
Discerns a vestal from a dirty dab.

What sort of statue will ye have,
To snatch his glory from the grave,
That seemeth in a terrible decline?
The vulgar statues to surpass,
Let it be form'd of kindred brass;
In pure Corinthian let your hero shine.

Colossal it will be no doubt,
To push his head among the gods;
Cocking his pert, imperious snout,
Much like the bully of old Rhodes.

224

Upon the pedestal his worth,
And great achievements, will start forth:
In staring capitals I mark reform,
With Col'nel Sharman's volunteers ,
With pointed muskets, swords, and spears,
To raise for dying liberty a storm.

There shall we see the name of war,
That many a soldier sends, and tar,
To sleep with their still fathers and still mothers;
For war, though seeming very dread,
By knocking thousands on the head,
Makes comfortable elbow-room for others.

In letters too, all large and fair,
Old Bailey on the eye may stare;
Where Justice, with her sharpen'd shears,
Has lopp'd off many a liar's ears.

In letters too, superb and bold,
The name of income-tax be told,
That made so many millions blest;
And eke of poor old penny-post ,
That gave so sweetly up the ghost,
T' oblige the gaping treas'ry's chest.

225

Now tell us where ye mean to place
Your fav'rite hero's brazen face?
Ev'n at fam'd Newgate let him soar,
And swinging grace the debtor's door.

The letters sent to Ireland by a noble duke and his associates, in order to force themselves into power, would have furnished the neck of the author of such tr---on of the present day with a halter.

On Mr. Pitt's silly, cruel, and unproductive imposition on the penny-post letters, I felt for the humbler classes of society, who seem to be born with passions somewhat of the same quality with those of our lofty rulers, and composed a pretty little elegy, called the Tears of the Penny-Post.—The following stanzas are faithful extracts from that tender performance, which on some future day may probably be given entire, for the gratification of the public.—

After a most pathetic exordium, Madam Penny-Post thus lamenteth

THE pensive housemaid, pensive Susan, sighs—
Susan, a soft, a sweet, and tender lass;
Susan, with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes,
And pouting lips that might for cherries pass.

‘Oh, the vile Pitt!’ she cries—‘poor folks to rob!
This with my humble wages won't agree!
With pleasure twice a week I wrote to Hob,
And Hob, dear youth, wrote twice a week to me.

‘Now only once a week can we afford
To breathe our souls on paper—harmless blisses!
But what is that to him, the savage?—Lord!
Who careth not three straws for woman's kisses.

‘Soon as a maggot crept into my head,
I caught a stump of pen and put it down:
“What is a penny?” to myself I said;
So sent it Hob, a dozen miles from town.

‘Unmov'd by love is Pitt; for lo, at college,
He felt no charm in faces, feet, or hips;
But hunted, with the proctor, to my knowledge,
Poor girls that lent young gentlemen their lips.

‘And when they caught one, like a brace of bears
They gripp'd her, swearing she should pay for sinning;
And, deaf as haddocks to her squalls and tears,
Lugg'd her away, and set her to hard spinning.

226

Ye make too much of this poor man,
Stifling your creature with caresses;
A simple goose is not a swan—
Ye ought to blush at your addresses.

‘But they were paid in their own coin again,
For clawing the poor creature—huffing, snubbing;
For, with their sticks, with all their might and main,
The good young gownsmen gave the brutes a drubbing.

‘Oh, gemini! how I should like to spin
A hempen cord th' unnatural rogues to throttle,
That give up beauty for a glass of gin,
And leave nice girls to hug a nasty bottle!

‘But some low fellows—wretches, let me say
(But not my Hobby, I am proud to think),
Think eyes were only made to see their way,
And mouths for nothing else but meat and drink.

‘The very birds their time on love employ;
And see our pigeons how they kiss and coo,
And nod, and bill, and flap their wings for joy,
And fondly whisper, Dovey, how d'ye do?

‘When Hobby leaves me with a kiss and squeeze,
All brisk as bees my spirits in a minute,
I twirl my mop about with so much ease,
And scrub and sing away like any linnet.

‘With such good will, indeed, I do my work,
Thinking of Hob's caresses all the while,
I feel my heart a-dancing light as cork,
And feed the pigs and poultry with a smile.

‘This, this I swear—Though hungry as a hound,
The stomach shall not steal the bosom's bliss;
True to Love's passion shall these lips be found,
And lose ev'n beans and bacon for a kiss.’

227

‘What a great soul is William Pitt!
What mind! what energies! what wit!
Give him a statue—vote him money!
Great creature! greatest thing alive,
The lab'ring bee of our large hive:
Fill his dear throat with half the honey:
His wants are many—ease him, ease him;
Ev'n let the nation starve, to please him.’
How like Lord Froth and his dog Faddle ,
Who makes his family's head addle
With orders, cautions for his Pug!
Faddle has got a four-post bed,
With pillows for his gentle head,
Nice sheets, and comfortable rug,
With curtains of the finest chintz,
Fit for the chamber of a prince.

This dog story is not imaginary; Portman Square knows all about it, and enjoys its laugh.

Faddle, the fav'rite of Lord Froth,
Is comforted with richest broth,
And victuals, too, of sweetest picking;
And while the servants of the house
Can scarcely give their plate a mouse,
Faddle enjoys his roasted chicken.
Is Faddle sick?—Lord! what a yelling!
Heav'ns! what a bustle in the dwelling!
Susan and Molly, turn and turn,
Watch the poor creature night and day,
And such solicitude display;
And sigh, and hang the head, and mourn;
And tread with cat-like step the floor,
And with such softness shut the door;
Such whispers, and such tiptoe stealings,
For fear of wounding Faddle's feelings;

228

And straw is also strew'd before the door,
That coaches may not spoil his pretty snore!
My lord, too, half his time attending,
O'er his sick fav'rite kindly bending,
Administers himself, his pills and potions;
Tucking with sympathizing tears,
The bed-clothes round his chin and ears,
Examining, too, all his motions;
For fear that Faddle's tender tripes,
Poor thing, might suffer by the gripes:
And quitting him at night, there's such caressing,
When, bishop-like, he leaves the dog his blessing.
Now tell me, ev'ry candid cit,
The difference between Pug and Pitt —

229

Now, to be serious if we can,
Speak—are ye laughing at the man?

I this moment am informed of the actual death of poor Faddle! The ladies are locked up in their rooms, to indulge their melancholy; a death-like silence surrounds the kitchen; not a jack flying; not a spit turning, nor a poker stirring—his lordship inconsolable, carrying about the house his lifeless companion in a box, kissing his cold black muzzle, and bathing it with tears. Cards of condolence are expected from every quarter, and the dog is to be sent, with all pomp, to W---, to be interred with due funereal honours; and to whose precious memory a monument (per-adventure a statue, by the hand of our female Phidias, the honourable Mrs. Damer) is to be erected, with a suitable inscription—

Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit,
Nulli flebilior quam tibi, Frothii.

It is universally avowed, that Faddle was killed by kindness.—Mr. Pitt, the great favourite of his pensioners, placemen, and loanmen, seems to be dying in the very identical manner.—A parallel between the manners of Pug and Pitt may probably form the subject of a future effusion.

What! to a wolf a statue give,
That scarce would suffer us to live;
Tearing, poor bleating sheep, our fleeces!
Should Honour, Glory ever stray,
And meet this statue 'midst their way,
They'd pull the folly all to pieces;
Exclaiming thus—‘A statue! gods!
To one that mischief only plods;
A nation's horror—such a known defaulter;
If something to his fame must start,
Let Master Ketch employ his art,
And weave the gentleman a h---.’
I think subsciptions will be thin,
For flatt'ring our great nation's hope:
Heav'ns! how the guineas had pour'd in,
'Stead of a statue had it been a rope!
Before I finish, let me sing,
Sweet nightingale, before the king;
And warbling tell him, that this fellow,
This Pitt, whose virtue d*mns a punk ,
Though not averse to getting drunk,
Ev'n in his soberest moments mellow,
Wants much to mount the old state-coach agen,
If majesty will give his hand the rein.

It is a known fact, that when at Cambridge, Pitt delighted in hunting down, with the proctors, the poor unfortunate damsels that came fresh from the country, who only endeavoured to sell their lilies and roses to the young gentlemen, and sometimes to the graver dons, of the university.

The man that has not woman in his soul,
Is fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils.

230

Yes, much he wants to mount the old state-car,
And hear a world his highness hail—
But humbler stations suit him better far:
What think ye, sirs, of the car's tail?
His majesty in wisdom shone,
Soon as he brush'd him from the throne;
Just to his glory, to his kingdom just:
Yet see! the worm crawls round its feet,
Wants much to enter it to eat,
And render it a heap of rotten dust.
As for his knowledge in finance,
Not far his majesty need dance
Before he found one of a happier wit:
In this good nation may be seen,
And felt, state-razors full as keen
For shaving us, as Master Billy Pitt.
Pitts are as plentiful as crabs,
Or shall we say Saint Giles's drabs?
With nice old proverbs some old books are stor'd;
One I remember of a fowl—
‘A man must be hard driv'n to find a bird,
Who offers two-pence for an owl.’
Talk of an Irish face of brass,
While Pitt exists! let tongues be still—
A common to a blade of grass—
An ocean to a creeping rill!
Why come again upon the heath?
Already we have lost our purses—
We've nought to give but blasting breath,
Deep sighs of poverty, and curses.
Pitt licks his lips again at pow'r,
Just like a bull-dog that has tasted blood—
Wants the bull's nose—ripe to devour,
And split his belly with the vital flood.
Pitt brings to mind a pupil of the gallows,
Part of whose hist'ry is as follows:

231

THE THIEF.

A rogue, by Honesty long left,
Was by Dame Justice order'd to be stripp'd,
And whipp'd,
For burglary—that is to say, a theft:
A work perform'd by men and boys,
Studying the nat'ral history of shops,
Who most ingeniously, without a noise,
Contrive to ope their unsuspecting chops,
Drawing forth money, watches, muslins, laces,
With other trinkets, that supply the Graces;
Assisted much by Mistress Night,
Of whom the Bow-street authors write;
A lady, who the world believes
Keeps the bad company of thieves.

The cat o'-nine-tails to his hide
Was most ingeniously applied,
Graving upon his mem'ry the word shop—
Puss, Pitt-like, deeply drank the purple flood—
But, lo! the rogue with Stoic patience stood,
As though Puss had not drank a single drop!

As soon as Justice had perform'd her part
Upon the rogue's unwincing hide,
He calmly turn'd his back upon the cart,
And, musing, roll'd his eyes from side to side
With a most solemn, philosophic face,
Like my Lord Eldon, on a crabbed case,
Which often comes into the Court of Chancery;
Where his grave lordship, and grave wig,
Both with the first importance big,
Are very often puzzled how to answer ye;

232

So very undecisive in decision,
Leaving for future chancery-traps provision.

‘Well! what art thinking of?’ exclaim'd Jack Ketch—
‘Thy brain seems dev'lish hard upon the stretch.’
‘I'm thinking,’ quoth the thief, with sharpen'd ken,
‘Of gutting that there shop to-night agen.’

Now, gentle sirs, pray ope your eyes,
And learn the art of being wise:
Your schemes are idle wholly, wholly:
Ye show a wondrous want of wit;
Th' immortal statue rais'd to Pitt,
Immortalizeth too—your folly.

Stay but a little month or so,
Your fondness will be much abated;
Ev'n your own hands will overthrow
The idol that ye have created:
No more your pyramid supports its rat—
Your tiger dwindles to a mangy cat.