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

Yet to provoke and mortify me more,
(Scarce crediting my two astonish'd ears
Yarmouth and Bloomfield sent of cards a score,
Inviting dead folks; dead, ah! dead for years.
Elegy II.

453

ELEGY I.

The Poet lamenteth, in the Strain of the Son of Jesse, his hard Fate, but not quite destitute of Hope.—In the Language of Music, follows a long String of sharps in a Key illustrating the Subject, and displaying the Fertility of the Poet's Imagination.—Great Expectation on Account of Honour conferred on Mr. Sheridan.—The Poet's Humility in wishing even to be seated with the degraded Commons of England, upon the Grass in the Garden, under Canvass.

In grief, I sat upon the bank of Thame;
(But not, thank God, a captive, like the Jews ;)
And when the Jubilee to memory came,
Tears burst in torrents from my Lady Muse.

454

Yet, lo, one beam, one solitary ray,
Pierc'd the dark cloud that wrapp'd my sandy seat;
A great, sublime, a wonderful display
Of Eastern Grandeur at the Prince's Fête.

“Here,” said I to myself, “I build some hope,
(Perchance a slight foundation, rather rotten:)
No longer doom'd in solitude to mope,
At Carlton Fête I may not be forgotten.”

Sharp as a pining Maid expects the Post,
That brings epistle full of lovesick sighs;
Or as the Dog in seeming slumber lost,
Who slily winks, to snap the teasing flies:—

Sharp as, amid the fields of air, a Kite,
In hopes of feasting on a barn-door fowl;
Or as for mice, amid the dusky night,
O'er hill and dale the solitary Owl:—

Sharp as a Bailiff for a hiding debtor;
Or as the hard Churchwarden on the poor;
Or bilious Critic on a word, or letter,
To scalp his victim author o'er and o'er:

Sharp as an Epicure upon the haunch,
His two eyes jealous of the favourite fat;
Or on the turtle, to enlarge his paunch
With thrice the quantity would fill a hat:

Sharp as the Bank upon a doubtful note;
Or hungry Frenchmen for a limb of frog;
Or Borough-monger for a casting vote,
Intent to sell poor Freedom like a Hog:

Sharp as a trading justice for a bible,
To give the oath, no matter false or true;
Or dread Sir Vinegar to seize a libel,
And strike th' offending dog with vengeance due:—

455

Sharp as Sir Vinegar, who look'd in vain
To shove his bottom into Mansfield's place;
Or as Jack Ketch surveys the felon train,
In hope of necks to meet his rope's embrace:—

Sharp as Lord Puzzle for his office-fee,
To keep his poverty-struck house, so poor;
Where none my Lord and Lady Puzzle see,
Save keen Economy, who bolts the door:—

Sharp as our Alexander, gallant York,
Look'd out for poor Sir David's resignation;
Who now (for merit miracles can work)
O'er Slander triumphs, and resumes his station:—

Sharp as Marcellus for the rapturous hour
That yields the Dame whom every charm adorn;
When kind Cornutus takes his prudent tour,
And calmly in his pocket puts his horns:

Exulting thus, in language rather coarse;
“What's wife to honours?—stuff, beneath my care:
Make me, ye Gods, but Master of the Horse,
The Devil may be the master of my mare;”

So sharp I listen'd, yea, with full-stretch'd ear,
To every knock, no matter soft or hard;
At once, in Fancy's eye, I saw appear
A Royal compliment to me the Bard.

Said I, “If Sheridan a favourite be,
The moral Mentor of the Princely mind;
Some compliment will come to moral me:
The Lyric moralist must favour find.”

Yes, to myself I whisper'd (not in joke),
“At Carlton House I sure shall eat, and quaff;
Although not cheek by jowl with Royal folk,
Yet under canvass with the common raff:”—

456

Raff that we Britons with our freedom trust,
Yet now consider'd as mere reptile things;
Raff that can form a Monarch from the dust;
Raff that confers a Majesty on Kings.

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down; yea, we wept when we remembered Zion.”—Psalm CXXXVII.

During which the unfortunate Bard remained entirely unnoticed.

457

ELEGY II.

A most pathetic Question.—The Poet's heavy Complaint.—Mr. Weltjie passeth high Panegyric on the Bard—knoweth his Poetry by heart—inviteth the Bard to Dinner—a broad hint to certain Princes.—Mr. Weltjie wisheth the Bard to be his Biographer, proudly insinuating that his Life would be a more interesting morceau to the Public than the exalted Life of Colonel Hanger—intimateth a Desire of the Prince to peruse the Poet's delectable Effusions.—Great Character given by Mr. Weltjie of his Royal Master.—The Poet again, in the sublime Strain of the Royal Psalmist, voweth Acts of Gratitude to the Memory of his old departed Friend Weltjie.

In sackcloth still and ashes must I weep?
Yes, in his solitude the Poet mourns,
Gold fills the House of Carlton, what a heap!
But not to him the Age of Gold returns.

No, not one grain of favour have I found;
Nor seen indeed the shadow of a card:
Thus are my sanguine hopes all wreck'd, and drown'd;
Such for my loyalty the rare reward!

458

Yet to provoke and mortify me more,
(Scarce crediting my two astonish'd ears,)
Yarmouth and Bloomfield sent at least a score,
Inviting dead folks ; dead, ah! dead for years.

How often Weltjie to my flatter'd ear
Hath said, and given my heart sweet palpitation:
“Docter, I tell you vhat: by Gote, I swear
You be de bestest Poet in de nation.

“I likes your Louziad; oh, dam pretty ting;
I laughs to zee you vling about your squibs:
An den de Apple Dumplins an de King;
Mine Gote, I laughs until I breaks my ribs.

“Den Vhitbread Brewhouse, an poor Passon Yong;
Docter, I can remember dem by rote:
And Docter, minds, I neffer tells you vrong;
De Deffil take me, all be true by Gote.”

How often has he said, “Come come, an dine
(I knows you love good eating) pon a buck:
An den I gif you dam goot glass of vine;
I gif you too one roast anchovy duck.

“Den, Docter, you muss taste my pretty pork;
Bester dan oder peeple pork by half:
I knows dat you will play goot knive an vork;
An mind, I zuckles de yong pigs myzelf.

459

“Den after dinner you sal taste my vruit:
I gif you for to eat zome nice umbrellas;
Dere's in my gardin zome dat's defflish goot:”—
Kind Weltjie simply meaning, his morellas

Delighted with my Lyric Lucubration;
Fond of the Poet, and the Poet's name;
Such was the generous German's invitation.—
Blush, Princes, that ye have not done the same.

How oft he ask'd me, “Vil you vrite my Life,
An vrite me zometing comikal in rhyme?
But dont zay not a vord about my Vife.
Mine beat George Hanger Life ten touzand time.

“But, Docter, zend de Prince your Vesses, pray;
He vish to have dem in de mornin early:
He tink you too great Poet of de day;
He love your funning, now I tell shinsherely.

“Now, Docter, zoon you zomething goot vil zee;
I knows de Prince do zometing goot intend:
Den zend His Royal Highness rhyme by me;
De Prince he neffer do forget old vriend.”

King of the Cooks, once of Pall Mall the glory;
No matter where thy birth, or who begat thee;
Pleas'd with thy broken English, and quaint story,
With thee I oft have laugh'd, and sometimes at thee.

Peace to thy shade, O Weltjie! Many an hour,
In Pall Mall, Hammersmith, and Turnham Green,
My soul has felt thy fascinating pow'r,
That from the gloomiest heart could chase the spleen.

Yes, Weltjie, thou shalt gild the page of Fame:
For thee, the Muse shall draw the teeth of Time;

460

Th' insatiate Tyrant shall not eat thy name:
Such are the powers of Rhyme, immortal Rhyme.

O Weltjie, to all parties so well known;
So great thy talents, what a burning shame
The Red Book, the Court Calendar alone,
Should give posterity a simple name!

Companion thou of Princes and of Peers,
Of Baronets and Knights the constant crony:
Thou by thy converse oft didst charm their ears;
And, what delighted more, didst lend them money.

If I forget thee, Weltjie , and thy dinner;
Thy tales of palaces, thy wit, thy punning;
May Fame proclaim me an ungrateful sinner,
And this my fiddle-hand forget her cunning.

Yes, Weltjie: if thy Ghost unhappy roam,
Because I've not fulfill'd my just devoirs;
Believe me, I will satisfy thy tomb,
And give the gossip Public thy Memoirs.

This was literally done by those two Ministers appointed to the card department; who seem on this occasion to have acted in diametrical opposition to the old adage, which says, “A living Dog is better than a dead Lion.” One would imagine that the noble Lord, and the brave and experienced Colonel, were put sadly to their trumps for want of a complete company, by being forced to beat up for volunteers among the tombs.

Muscovy.

“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand foget her cunning.” Psalm cxxxvii.

461

ELEGY III.

The Lucubrations of the Poet are carried to Carlton-House, but produce no remuneration.—History of Bards of old Times.—The Poet boasteth of the high Powers of his Muse and Harp, had they been invited to the Fête.—A natural Suggestion relative to the Ghost of Kien Long.—The presumed Generosity of Mr. Perceval.—A pretty Comparison between Ministers in general, and a Birch Rod.—A further Boast of Powers of the Harp and Song.—The Cruelty of Oblivion.

Elate, to Carlton-House my Rhymes I sent,
Before the Poem met the public eye:
Which gain'd applause, the Poet's great intent;
But nought besides, I say it with a sigh.

Strange, that the Prince forgot my Song and Lyre,
Whose taste in music is so very pretty;
Whose touches on the Bass possess a fire,
Surpass'd alone by Crossdill and Cervetti.

Yet, dare I say a Prince can be surpast;
Excell'd by groveling subjects, herd unclean?
Is it not blasphemy, to boast a taste
To rival that of Prince, or King, and Queen?

462

In days of yore, Bards ate and drank with Kings;
Courted, caress'd, invited to each rout:
Are modern Bards such sad degenerate things,
That I and my poor Harp were both kept out?

As scenes sublime demand a strain sublime,
How had I call'd upon the Muse of Fire!
How had I summon'd all the powers of Rhyme,
And wak'd the loudest thunder of the Lyre!

Sounds that had travell'd ocean, reach'd Pekin:
The present Emperor's ear had caught the Song;
The Verse had ravish'd every Mandarin,
And sooth'd the shade of Brother-Bard Kien Long.

Who knows but that the good old Monarch's Ghost
Assumed behind the Regent's chair a station;
Pleased with the lustre of the scene, and cost!—
The cost? Poh, poh! a fleabite to the Nation.

This Perceval will pay, and with a grace.
Old England weak! her Treasury's a Giant:
Besides, if Ministers will keep their place,
Like Rods they merit, they must all be pliant.

Are there deficiencs of Civil List,
Works of high wisdom that expence demand;
With much humility the Throne is kiss'd,
The Budget gapes, and Taxes load the land.

Yes: raptured had I struck the harp of Fame,
And sung the splendid beauties of the Fête;
Described each dress, immortaliz'd each name,
And given Posterity th' illustrious treat:—

Sung boiling Gudgeons , given for Fish of Gold;
In streams that through the table should have play'd:

463

Superior to th' Arabian Nights of old;
Surpassing all that has been sung or said.

How had these mounted on the wings of Ode,
As much of fame the Lyric Muse bestows!
Now, like a Worm along the humble Sod,
They crawl through Newspapers in languid prose.

Ode is a Sun that undecaying shines;
A Giant, placing mortals 'midst the Gods:
The brain that owns it, boasts the gem-clad mines;
Ev'n Kings have gain'd celebrity from Odes.

Raptur'd I too had sung Britannia's boast,
The polish'd converse of the Heir Apparent.—
Good Heav'n, what valuable things are lost,
As Horace mourneth, quia Vate carent!

Oblivion, that sly mute, that creeping jade,
(As pleas'd to drown a wise man as a fool,)
Is ever busy at her secret trade,
To sink a name or virtue in a pool.

These humble representatives of fishes of gold, were, by the heat of the lamps, chandeliers, and the good company, completely boiled, and fit for dishing up; and, instead of exhibiting their intended sportive recreations, were seen floating in a melancholy and lifeless posture, between the tin banks, on the watery element.

464

ELEGY IV.

The Poet lamenteth the Omission of certain interesting Exhibitions that might have afforded Pleasure in Pastry to the Multitude.

What pity that no wash-tub did appear,
To show Trafalgar's Battle, and the Nile's;
With pretty little paper ships of war,
To launch the thunder of the Queen of Isles!

What pity there was not a baker's tray,
With troops of gingerbread upon the plain;
Horse, Foot, engag'd, and spreading dire dismay,
And cutting, thick as Hops, the French in twain!

Sure, gingerbread might well portray a scene,
A Duke's full levee after scenes of woe;
A Duke in converse with his gallant men,
And smiling upon Greenwood, Cox, and Co.

What pity, gingerbread did not display
Our British hero from his chariot flung;
Hurl'd from the regions of celestial day,
A second Phaeton, to mud and dung:—

Now nobly scrambling on his legs again,
'Midst gazing armies, and a mighty shout;
The reins resuming with a just disdain,
And scornful kicking dull Sir David out!

465

How far superior to a China view;
Where neither genius, taste, nor fancy, dwells:
Monkeys and mandarins, a motley crew,
Bridges, pagodas, swings, and tinkling bells!

Yet let us not of such a scene despair:
Some pastry-cook the miracle may bake;
The Royal Duke, Sir David, and the Car,
All nicely mounted on a nice twelfth cake.

466

ELEGY V.

A most solemn and pathetic Address to the Muse—The Poet recounteth the Princely Honours paid to him in past Times, with a most deplorable Contrast of the present Day.

Muse, sing the reason why I was omitted:
Was it that Dame Fitzherbert prov'd my theme;
In favour once, who, flatter'd and bedittied,
Of Crowns and Sceptres dar'd indulge the dream?

Was it because I touch'd the string of praise
To Her whose heart ev'n Envy must revere?
Was it because I wish'd her happier days;
And from the lid of grief to steal the tear?—

There was a time, a nod would bless mine eyes:
There was a time, I gain'd a gracious smile.
My nose was, like my garret, in the skies:
‘My room,’ I cried, ‘will flow with wine and oil.’

So sweet a Prince's smile, sublime his nod,
We scarce can fancy vulgar earth could mould him.
Gull'd man who gains them! he becomes a God:
Saint Paul's is scarcely large enough to hold him.

Too soon my buds of hope resign'd their bloom;
Too soon the gloom of disappointment mine
Oil, not a spoonful, flow'd into my room;
No, nor a piteous nipperkin of wine.

467

Ah! no; I found no meaning in the nod:
Ah! no; no meaning in the gracious smile:
In vain, with consequence the ground I trod;
Like Homer's Neptune, striding many a mile.

For Fortune therefore I must longer wait;
Hang on the willows my mute Harp ; and fear
That, if I hung myself, my hapless fate
Would scarcely force from Carlton-House a tear.

‘We hanged our harps upon the willows,’ &c. Psalm cxxxvii.

468

CURIOSITY IN RAGS.

Curiosity depicted—Lamentable Confusion at Carlton-House during the Exhibition after the Grand Fête—A sublime naval Comparison—Fortitude of the Ladies—A Compliment to the undaunted courage of Lord Yarmouth and Colonel Bloomfield—An Address to the Muse—A circumstantial Account of the Ladies' Progress in their vulgar and penitential Robes, from Carlton-House to their respective Habitations—A short and decent prayer for his Royal Highness.

What evils Curiosity produceth!
Yet nothing can the madding rage restrain:
Whate'er the danger, not a Nymph refuseth;
Though Death frown'd near, to cut her form in twain.

Vain were the efforts of a Milton's pen,
That paints a diabolic rout so well,
To give with truth the horrors of the scene;
Such squeezing, swearing, tearing, squeak, and yell.

Ah me, what petticoats were lost, and torn;
Pathetic subject for the mournful Muse,
Gowns and pelisses felt a state forlorn;
Baskets of bonnets, and whole tubs of shoes.

469

The golden chain forsook the bosom's charms,
With many a necklace form'd of pearls and beads:
Bracelets deserted from their taper arms,
And wigs in tatters left their lovely heads.

Thus at the glorious struggle of the Nile,
On which our British hist'ry justly brags;
Yard-arm and yard-arm meeting, (dread turmoil!)
The sails and rigging were reduc'd to rags.

Regardless of their Backs, amidst the squeeze;
As Velvet soft, and fair as Alpine Snow;
The kallipuge charms, the legs, and knees;
They urge their dang'rous way to see the show.

Their limbs so delicate, and skin so white,
And then their swelling bosoms all so bare,
Fix'd (for what youth could wink on such a sight?)
Fix'd ev'ry orb of vision on the stare.

Yes: ev'n with common decency to war,
Did novelty their gentle bosoms harden;
For soon indeed were numbers of the Fair,
Like Mother Eve when ent'ring Eden's garden.

Yet if the mother of the World could err,
(For in his trap old Satan surely caught her,)
We should not therefore make a mighty stir;
But yield to mercy and forgive the daughter.

Yet let me sing in thunder of applause,
How Yarmouth, Bloomfield, not a fear betray'd;
But through the windows, stripp'd of all their gauze
And muslins, lugg'd full many a fainting Maid.

Now, if you please, my Lady Muse, relate
What did the Nymphs who all their vestments lost;
As many a Nymph, the lean as well as fat,
Saw not the sight, by cruel Fortune crost.

470

Forc'd to their homes unwilling to depart,
They stalk'd forlorn along the grinning streets,
Deep-blushing, loaded with a heavy heart,
Huddled in aprons, table-cloths, and sheets.

Yea, verily, the Nymphs were forc'd to roam;
Yea, left by sad misfortune in the lurch;
In sorrow, all bare-headed, to their home,
As though they had done penance in a church.—

Such was the scene, with which no scene compares;
And long indeed will Dame and Damsel rue it:
Such was the piteous posture of affairs;
Pray God, the modest Regent did not view it!

Character given by the polite Athenians to one of their plump Venuses.