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

Believe the bard, my good lord may'r,
That we have been upon the stare,
For your address, for just administration;
Which brought the premier so much fame,
With peerless lustre crown'd his name,
And spread a smile of pleasure o'er the nation!

Wild Expectation, on her toe,
Has been a month, at least, I know,
Looking for this fair tribute of your thanks.
Perchance some dæmon, secret, sly,
Has mark'd th' affair with jealous eye,
And, deep in dark intrigue, been playing pranks:

Some Pittite, mad, vindictive, crost,
Because the statue has been lost,
Has tamper'd with some aldermen, I fear;
And, men of common-council greeting,
In sad unguarded hour of eating,
Mix'd ministerial poison with their beer.

Poor iron dust, through playful fate
Attracted by the magnet-state!

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Or let us rather call them straws—
Whirl'd from their dirt, their native sphere,
By sudden gusts—aloft, here, there—
Of babes the wonder and applause!—

I've seen that dæmon's cloven foot;
In spite of mobbing, damning hoot,
The daring imp has learn'd to stand his ground;
Well steel'd his heart, and bronz'd his face,
He cocks his nose upon disgrace,
And hunts his game—a persevering hound.

And now, lord may'r, I shall suppose,
That Addington's invet'rate foes
Impede this honest scheme of thine.
Then take this minikin of mine.

ADDRESS

To the Right Hon. Henry Addington.

YOUR good, your mild administration—
An epoch in this happy nation—
Our grateful thanks demands:
And let us here express our grief,
That Fate, at times an artful thief,
Should tear you from our hands.

Though dæmons may in league unite
To blur thy star's illustrious light,
That brightens now the age;
Lo! Hist'ry, with her golden pen,
To give thy name to future men,
Shall fill with thee her page.

279

Oh, may the men, who seize thy place,
Their country's glory ne'er disgrace,
By little, base, intriguing arts!
Instead of conqu'ring by their crimes,
Our sacred liberties and limbs,
Subdue, by noble deeds, our hearts!

Something like this, lord may'r, I want;
This is no parasitic cant—
Thou know'st of Addington the merit:
Let Calumny her venom spit,
And Envy hiss,—and tools of Pitt
Employ their cruel coal-black spirit.

Without disguise, that Pitt I hate,
Despise his mind, and parrot prate;
His minions!—with disdain I see 'em!—
And would the king (my wish devout!)
Make all the motley pack turn out,
I'd seek Saint Paul's, and sing Te Deum!

DEAR Perring, we are Devonshire-born,
Where Plenty fills her golden horn—
And, whether sober, sir, or mellow,
Old Devon certainly contains,
Now, as of yore, some splendid brains,
And many a brave and honest fellow.

Then let us not disgrace her name,
But give her star a brighter flame—

280

Exalt, if possible, her credit;
Yes!—boldly act, and write, and think,
And mind!—my horn's last drop of ink,
To raise her glory—lo, I'll shed it.

Thy planet led thee to the east,
To fill with precious gems thy chest,
And eke with precious ointment:
Mine westward order'd me to roam,
And, after years, come loaded home
With sterling disappointment!

And yet I'm not a broken spirit;
The public has observ'd my merit,
As well as India thine;
To which kind public, low I bow—
Its candour and its taste allow;
For gratitude is mine.

Now to the point—Exert thy might,
And separate the day from night;—
Discern good friends from foes;
For thou hast brethren, dark and deep—
Amid thy flock, some scabby sheep,
Aye, many a one, God knows!

Yet should an alderman demur,
Strait strip him of his gown and fur—
That gown of vivid scarlet!
And should the counsel dare refuse
To sign th' Address—stain'd be the blues
Of every gravy-gulping varlet.

I fear that linen-draper's jaw,
Which gives to liv'rymen the law—

281

Forsaking trade, in hour most evil,
Lawn, cotton, dimity, and muslin,
The pates of common-council puzzling—
Has lately play'd the very devil!

Of such—O, may the sav'ry haunch
Ne'er enter the unhallow'd paunch;
Great rival of a bag:
Before their mouths, may brawn advance,
And turtles fat, and turbots dance,
And balk each well-worn snag!

Down their plump cheeks, may custards stream—
Rich trifle, syllabubs, ice-cream;
And may they writhe and grin,
And spread their tantaliz'd poor chops,
To catch the luscious sugar'd drops—
And not one drop get in!

Nay, more! may giants of Guildhall,
Whom mortals, Gog and Magog call,
Leap down on ev'ry head,
When next they meet on Lord Mayor's Day,
Their vows to Gluttony to pay,
And crush each sconce of lead.

Oh! strain each nerve, my good lord may'r—
Merit like Addington's is rare—
To leave him, what a pity!
The thunder of my muse's lays
Shall shake Parnassus with his praise,
And thou shalt shake the city.

Mr. Waithman, a great city orator, a son of Liberty and Opposition, and elève of John Wilkes, of volcano immortality; who, from his great and cheap shop in Bridge-street, Black-Friars, facing the noble monument called Obelisk, raised and dedicated to his glorious patron, draws patriotic inspiration for his motions and speeches.