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

Ladies and gemmen, masters, misses,
I dare not compliment your phizzes;
Indeed fit subjects for the lash of Satire—
If Truth conduct the painter's brush,
What madness bade ye hither rush,
Such melancholy, sad burlesques on Nature?—

Thou poor sour face, who seem'st to sigh
Because thou art hung up so high,
So near the window—prithee, do not growl—
Thou need'st not feel a great alarm,
Jack Ketch had done no mighty harm
If out o'window he had hung thy jowl!

And who art thou, so round and fat?—
Why didst thou quit the brewer's vat?—
But tell me, vulgar gentleman, who art?
I am no Œdipus, indeed;
And yet thy occupation read—
That is, a running footman to a cart!

413

TO A FEMALE HEAD.

Pert, smirking Miss, you seem to sally
From Dyot-Street, or Black-boy Alley;
And no small consequence you seem to feel:—
Pray, Miss, go back—your trade pursue—
Put on your cover-slut of blue,
And stick to tripe, sheeps' trotters, and cow-heel.

TO A MAN'S HEAD.

Say, who art thou, devoid of grace,
With round and dull unmeaning face,
Whose head-piece seems to want a further stuffing?
Speak!—cam'st thou, by vain-glory won,
To prove that Nature, in her fun,
May on a pair of shoulders place a muffin?

414

TO THE SOMBRE FACE OF PARSON CODMAN.

‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us!’
What, Copley, dost thou hither send us?—
Is it a ‘goblin damn'd,’ who in his dark-hole
Has just been dining upon pitch and charcoal?—
Zounds! 'tis a man—and yet a very odd man—
Ladies and gentlemen, 'tis Parson Codman!

'Squire Copley, was it meant in fun,
To fabricate this thing forlorn?—
What has th' unhappy parson done,
That thou shouldst hang him up to scorn?

Perchance 'twas modesty, t'impart
Thy humble knowledge in the art—
Yet, certain proofs the bard incline
To think this virtue never thine.

Let not Mr. Copley shrink at the introduction of the word proofs, which the voice of Scandal might construe into a squint at a suspected transaction of past times.

415

TO THE PORTRAIT OF HELEN.

Sweet Helen! with thee, in the vale,
With rapture my hours have been crown'd,
When the turtle was telling his tale,
And the lambkins were sporting around.

In the cottage I too have been blest,
When thy beauty the cottage adorn'd;
And when thy soft hand I have prest,
I have fancied my youth was return'd.

But why, my sweet-girl, art thou here,
With mop-squeezers, venders of cheese,
With the calf, and the bull, and the bear?—
What horrid companions are these!

But where is thy form and thy grace—
Where those eyes that with lustre should shine?—
Dear Helen, I look on a face
That never, ah! never, was thine!

Painters seldom in beauty succeed—
Grace and canvass but seldom agree—
Thou hast honour'd the painter, indeed;
But the knave has done nothing for thee!

416

TO A HEAD.

You are a tailor, sir, I guess,
Just whipp'd into his lordship's dress;
Leap'd from your board, no Mercury so nimble!
But from your board when pleas'd to skip,
Why leave behind, good Master Snip,
Your good friend Goose, the needle, thread, and thimble?

TO TWO HEADS.

And who art thou, with face so full?
I ween, thou keepest the Black Bull,
Red Lion, White Horse Cellar, or Brown Bear—
And madam, you there, by his side,
I guess, are Boniface's bride;
Methinks the tap-room is your proper sphere!

417

TO A MINIATURE PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY, LATELY DECEASED.

The nymph, by the Graces adorn'd,
Who led all the Loves in her train,
By the lyre of the muse shall be mourn'd,
While the lyre has a chord to complain.

Sweet image, that never wilt fade,
In thee lives her form, and her bloom!
When in thee I behold the dear maid,
I forget that she sleeps in the tomb!

TO A FEMALE HEAD.

You, madam, this fine dome adorning,
Rise early every Monday morning,
To join your linen, soap and lie, and tub—
Then take a glass of comfort for your spirits—
Your sisterhood with rapture hail—
Enjoy the jest and smutty tale—
Like quality—without the blush of shame!

418

TO ANOTHER.

Welcome, sweet Miss, in ochre bloom,
Trick'd out to grace this glorious room;
Hopp'd from your humble bulk—behind a string—
Where an odd slipper and odd shoe,
Where laces, yellow, red, and blue,
And wig and comb, in graceful order swing!—

A watch of gingerbread—one patten—
A shoe-string, and a stripe of satin;
A handkerchief of check, that makes a blaze;
A various tribe of love-sick sonnet,
Fur tippet, muff, and rusty bonnet;
An infant's pudding, and a pair of stays.

TO ANOTHER FEMALE HEAD.

And bulky ma'am, of the same school,
Like patience on a three-legg'd stool—
Accept my bow—behind the lines suspending
A flannel wig, and half a shirt,
Not much the whiter for the dirt—
Gowns without tails, that cry aloud for mending!

A child's cap, torn by time and rockings;
Two mittens, from two old black stockings;
A ragged parasol, a leathern cat,
David the king, in gingerbread—
King Solomon without his head,
Devour'd by some d---n'd jacobinic rat!

419

CONCLUSION.

Now to be serious—O ye men!
(Few eagles, and too many a wren)—
How dare ye fill the room with such pollution?—
Will Justice say, while thus ye hang
So sad and villanous a gang,
Yourselves should not be led to execution?

How cruel to keep Genius out,
To favour fools, and rabble rout;—
Where is the just and independent spirit?—
Ah! dinners and a glass of port
Can favour trash of ev'ry sort,
And thus exclude the works of real merit.

Great George, in all thy wrath arise—
Turn to thy royal dome thine eyes—
And smartly kick each academic tether:—
But should this deed disgrace thy glory,
As sounding not sublime in story,
Bid Sam the porter knock their heads together!

It is a shameful and notorious fact, that dinners, patronage, and favouritism, have been uniformly the means of introducing performances beneath the dignity of criticism, to the exclusion of works deserving the public attention.