ANTICIPATION:
OR, THE PRIZE ADDRESS;
Which will be delivered ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW DRURY-LANE THEATRE, BY ONE OF THE MANAGERIAL PHALANX, In the Character of PETER PUNCHEON, A LANDLORD.
Now first published, for the sake of gratifying a great and impatient Empire, BY PHILOMATH WIZARD, ASTROLOGER.
------ sapiens dominabitur astris.
The stars I view through Galileo's eyes,
And find this very Poem claims the prize.
The sage who peeps into futurity,
May prophesy with much security;
And say what chickens Father Time
Will, hen-like, hatch in prose and rhyme:
But, Lord! how few, let me remark,
Can pierce the blanket of the dark!
Resembling the sweet bird of morn,
On airy wing sublimely borne,
That, ere the valley feels the ray,
Proclaims the birth of bright'ning day.
Ladies, and Gentlemen, I'm Peter Puncheon!
Welcome to dinners, suppers, or a luncheon.
First, let me swear, if such be your desire,
I never got one farthing by the fire.
Oons! dev'lish happy had I been, to catch
The rogue that pil'd the stuff, and plac'd the match;
He soon had suffer'd for his burning game,
That knave's fine carcase-fat had felt the flame.
So much to vice insurances persuade,
The burning system, is a thriving trade.
The man to-night a beggar on his pillow,
To-morrow sports a curricle and villa;
For some folks can contrive estates to raise,
And find the road to fortune by the blaze.
(Applause.
Well, Gentles, welcome to our new-old Inn;
Well, stock'd our cellars, full is ev'ry bin:
Old port, old hock, old cider, and old perry;
But none of that neat article, Old Sherry!
Which tho' well cork'd, and seal'd in quarts and pottles,
Too frisky, bouncing, bankrupted the bottles.
No wines of France I suffer to appear;
Such my resolve—I'd sooner swill small-beer.
No faithless Frenchman shall my purse maintain;
No burgundy for me, no pert champaign;
And sooner would I rent a cobweb garret,
Than see my patriot glasses blush with claret.
(More applause.
'Sbud! how I wish to meet with Emperor Nap,
And catch him at my bar, or at my tap!
I'd give him such a dose to warm his brain,
He should not, like parole-rogues, cross the main:
These hands should pull his pride imperial down,
And to a less than sixpence clip his crown:
Egad I'd make him look as sour, and sullen
As on his praams so knock'd about off Boulogne.
Poor fool, the puppet of poor foolish France,
The boastful hero of a French romance,
Not long the empire of the rogue will last—
A mere French puff—no more—a sudden blast—
Soon the mock Monarch shall to fate be hurl'd;
For we who hold the trident, rule the world.
(A thunder of applause.
Now, Gents, for quadrupeds—below my care:
I mount, no tutor to a horse, or mare;
I keep no stables, beans, or oats, or hay;
Such articles I leave to Marshal Neigh.
Indeed I soar not from my humble station,
T'exert my genius on horse-education;
And yet I've often seen it come to pass,
A sage turn'd trav'lling tutor to an ass;
Nay too I've read, a rogue, to save his neck,
Once undertook to teach a jackass Greek.
Then as for newspapers, not one shall enter;
I'll kick it to the devil that dare venture;
Scattering dark doubts and lies to get its meat;
Laughs at success, and glories in defeat;
Sports raven-paragraphs that croak distress,
And load with curses what is born to bless;
That tries each art to rouse to arms the million,
And rears the daring standard of rebellion;
Pours out its jokes as fast as hail, or faster,
And, demon-like, grows fat upon disaster;
Like toads, that feed (a miserable doom)
On the foul horrors of a dungeon's gloom.
Such rebel paragraphs, to atoms strike 'em!—
These are my politics—pray how d'ye like 'em?
(Many plaudits, and some hisses.
Now, with your leave, a toast let me advance:
Health to Old England—ruin to New France!
(Drinks.—Much applause, and a few hisses.
Well, now I'm giving healths, suppose I say,
Here's Wellington, the Marlborough of the day!
(Wonderful applause.
Here's to his arms, whose hug each Frenchman feels,
And trusts his safety to his friends his heels.
(Repeats his draught.—More applause.
Here goes another toast—To General Hill!
To every Frenchman a most bitter pill;
Nephew of preaching Rowland, foe to evil—
Religion's champion—Cribb who mills the Devil;
Scares Beelzebub upon his blazing throne,
And rescues souls Old Nick believ'd his own.
(Drinks again.—Applause.
Here's Graham too, and Stuart of high note!
Damn him who damns an Irishman or Scot!—
(Drinks.—Loud applause.
But shall our navy be pass'd by? No, no,
While ale or porter down this throat can flow.—
St. Vincent, Cochran, Saumarez, Pellew,
And dauntless bravery of our British crew,
By whom such deeds of fortitude are done,
As make old Neptune tremble for his throne.
(Universal plaudits.
Such are the heroes dough-fac'd Gallia fears,
Atoning for the C******s and G******s.
(Drinks.—Unlimited applause.
Now let not our friend Whitebread be forgotten:
I'll drink his porter till my bones are rotten;
For mind me, Gentlefolks, (I no not frolick),
I'll tip his stout altho' it gives the cholic:
If I forget him, may my beer ne'er work,
And this right hand forget to draw a cork:
May heaven's blue lightning all my bins assail
And thunder turn to vinegar my ale.
Be every hogshead split to make me poor,
And every foaming liquor float the floor;
Nay, may I without a farthing in my fob,
Scratch on a dirty dunghill just like Job.
Whitebread—nice name—a name of fair renown;
May Whitebread never turn to black or brown!
Superior to the Commons, on his legs,
As tuns to hogsheads, quarter casks, to kegs.
Porter and Whitebread act two glorious parts:
One charms our palates, and one charms our hearts:
So soft his manner, such persuasive notes:
Should envy doubt me, ask his Bedford votes.
By this blue apron, and this porter mug,
Which to my breast with gratitude I hug,
I swear his head upon my sign I'll put,
A quartern loaf, a dray-man, and a butt;
On this the world, the gaping world, will stare,
And wonder Whitebread never was Lord May'r:
Since fish and fowl
the civic honours gain,
Why not Sam's porter wear the golden chain?
Fish, fowl, and porter following each other
At ev'ry feast, amidst the hound-like pother.
Whitebread this house for ever shall record
And each bin bless him till it has no board.
(Drinks.—Uncommon applause.
Tho' last, not least, the Regent Prince—proof spirit,
The friend of liberty, and friend of merit:
Not flimsy gauze, but superfine strong cloth;
No trifle, no whip-syllabub, no froth:
His orb in glory has its course begun;
May equal splendour crown his setting sun!
(Drinks.—Huzzas and acclamations from every part of the house.
In borough-terms—I thank ye for this plumper,
Or, in the language of my bar, a bumper:
Ladies and Gentlemen, in every part,
(Bows to the whole house.
Long may ye live, and merry be each heart.
Tenfold may Heaven your kindnesses requite,
And may I meet such custom ev'ry night!
(Tumultuous plaudits, fans clapping, and white handkerchiefs waving.
Yet yield attention, for I finish soon.
What's jovial company, without a tune?
What is a merry meeting, without song?
Rasp catgut-scrapers, rasp, and tap the tongue:
Roar, roar away—“Britannia, rule the waves,
“For freeborn Britons never will be slaves!”
[The music strikes up.
[After the song, the Author will be honoured by being called for, in imitation of the French, to exhibit himself, be admired, and make his obeisance to the public; when the freedom of the house will be presented to him in a gold snuff box, and his brows encircled by a laurel crown.]
