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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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
243
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
AN ODE.
Fond is the human heart of pow'r!
Indeed, it cannot be denied:
We see the tyrant ev'ry hour,
Stuff'd, like a pincushion, with pride.
Indeed, it cannot be denied:
We see the tyrant ev'ry hour,
Stuff'd, like a pincushion, with pride.
Pride is a very stubborn evil—
Set but a beggar on a horse,
Lord! what will be the fellow's course?
The knave will gallop to the devil.
Set but a beggar on a horse,
Lord! what will be the fellow's course?
The knave will gallop to the devil.
Pitt with his green bag once look'd small,
Could beg and pray in yonder Hall,
Courting the honour of a brief;
Ready to plead for any thing,
Jacobin, traitor to his k—,
And every despicable thief.
Could beg and pray in yonder Hall,
Courting the honour of a brief;
Ready to plead for any thing,
Jacobin, traitor to his k—,
And every despicable thief.
But leaving off, at length, brief-mumping,
And strangely into office jumping;
Adieu, the modest, asking face!
Features assume a diff'rent form:
The calm is banish'd—and the storm,
With all its blust'ring insolence, takes place.
And strangely into office jumping;
Adieu, the modest, asking face!
Features assume a diff'rent form:
The calm is banish'd—and the storm,
With all its blust'ring insolence, takes place.
Nothing his grandeur could withstand!
Hustling and bullying, such a rout!
In short, the noblest of the land
Were just like foot-balls kick'd about.
Hustling and bullying, such a rout!
In short, the noblest of the land
Were just like foot-balls kick'd about.
How like the negro on his mule;
Tormenting him beyond all rule;
Beating him o'er the head and ears,
His spurs into the creature sticking,
Abusing, damning, cursing, kicking—
For Blacky, like a Christian swears.
Tormenting him beyond all rule;
244
His spurs into the creature sticking,
Abusing, damning, cursing, kicking—
For Blacky, like a Christian swears.
His quondam master, passing by,
Beheld the beast with pitying eye—
‘You scoundrel, hold!—is murder your design?
Quako turn'd round, with a broad grin,
Not valuing the rebuke one pin—
‘Massa, me was your nega—dissy mine.’
Beheld the beast with pitying eye—
‘You scoundrel, hold!—is murder your design?
Quako turn'd round, with a broad grin,
Not valuing the rebuke one pin—
‘Massa, me was your nega—dissy mine.’
When Pitt is the subject, I scarcely know when to remit the lash, he is such a feast for satire. Should he be restored to that power (which, let me say, he in a manner usurped, and which he now fawningly courts), our liberties will have reason to tremble. The calamities of kingdoms have often been produced by the sole ignorance of a minister; but it is to be hoped, for the sake of humanity, that our late misfortunes arose solely from that pitiable source, and not from the dark, turbid bosom of malignity and vengeance.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |