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] |  |
151
CANTO II.
‘------ Qualis ab incepto.’
HORACE.
HORACE.
‘As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.’
153
THE ARGUMENT.
Invocation to the Muses—Degeneracy of modern Poets—The ragged State of the Ladies of Parnassus—Sad Condition of Bards—Praise of Mr. West's great Picture of King Alexander and the Stag—More Invocation to the Muses—The Tricks of those Ladies—Their Impositions on Poets and Poetesses—A Compliment to King George and Dr. Herschell, on their Intimacy with the Moon, and important discoveries in that Planet—Invocation to Apollo—Invocation to Conscience—Conscience described—The great Powers of Conscience—More Invocation to Conscience—Truth and Falsehood, their Situations—More Invocation to Conscience—The Praise of Royal Economy and a Hanoverian College—Address to Gottingen—More Invocation to Conscience—Mr. Hastings's Bulse, Mrs. Hastings's Bed and Cradle properly treated—More Words to Conscience—The fatal Power of Conscience over the late Mr. Yorke and Lord Clive—Address to Fame—A Request to the aforesaid Gentlewoman, instructing her how to dispose of some of her Trumpets—Description
of her Pseudo-votaries—The Bard blushing for the Quantity of Invocation—Procession of his Epic Poem—Madam Schwellenberg described with a Plate of Ham—Account of her Birth, Parentage, and Education—Account of Pride—Madam Schwellenberg's Visit to the King—His Majesty's most gracious Speech—Madam Schwellenberg's Answers—Address to Readers on Ladies Swearing—Sir Francis Drake, the Steward of the Household, described—not to be confounded with the famous Sir Francis Drake, who died near 200 Years ago—The Perquisites of the present Sir Francis—Description of the Dining Room belonging to the Cooks at Buckingham House—The Entertainment and Utensils of this Room—Dixon the Cook-major's Speech—Story of a Nabob and a Beggar—Cook-major Dixon's Speech in continuance—Speech of another Cook—The Cooks in the Dumps—The Cook-major's Rejoinder to the Cook's Speech—A very sensible Speech—Conclusion with a beautiful Simile—The Petition of the Cooks.
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Nymphs of the sacred fount, around whose brink
Bards rush in droves, like cart-horses, to drink;
Dip their dark beards amidst your streams so clear,
And, whilst they gulp it, wish it ale or beer;
Far more delighted to possess, I ween,
Old Calvert's Brewhouse for their Hippocrene;
And blest with beef, their ghostly forms to fill,
Make Dolly's chophouse their Aonian hill;
More pleas'd to hear knives, forks, in concert join,
Than all the tinkling cymbals of the Nine;
Assist me—ye who themes sublime pursue,
With scarce a shift, a stocking, or a shoe!
Such pow'r have satires, epigrams, and odes,
As make ev'n bankrupts of the born of gods,
As well as mortal bards, who oft bewail
Their unsuccessful madrigals in jail,
Where penn'd, like hapless cuckows, in a cage,
The ragged warblers pour their tuneful rage;
Deck the damp walls with verse of various quality,
And, from their prisons, mount to immortality.
Bards rush in droves, like cart-horses, to drink;
Dip their dark beards amidst your streams so clear,
And, whilst they gulp it, wish it ale or beer;
Far more delighted to possess, I ween,
Old Calvert's Brewhouse for their Hippocrene;
And blest with beef, their ghostly forms to fill,
Make Dolly's chophouse their Aonian hill;
More pleas'd to hear knives, forks, in concert join,
Than all the tinkling cymbals of the Nine;
Assist me—ye who themes sublime pursue,
With scarce a shift, a stocking, or a shoe!
Such pow'r have satires, epigrams, and odes,
As make ev'n bankrupts of the born of gods,
As well as mortal bards, who oft bewail
Their unsuccessful madrigals in jail,
Where penn'd, like hapless cuckows, in a cage,
The ragged warblers pour their tuneful rage;
Deck the damp walls with verse of various quality,
And, from their prisons, mount to immortality.
Ah! tell me where is now thy blush, O Shame!
Shall bards through jails explore the road to fame?
Like souls of papists in their way to glory,
Doom'd at the half-way house, call'd Purgatory,
To burn, before they reach the realms of light,
Like old tobacco-pipes, from black to white?
Yet let me say again, that pow'rful rhime
Hath lifted poets to a state sublime;
To lofty pill'ries rais'd their sacred ears
High o'er the heads of marvelling compeers,
Whose eggs, potatoes, turnips and their tops,
Paid flying homage to their tuneful chops!
Blest state! that gives each fair exalted mien,
To grace in print a monthly magazine;
And deck the shops with sweet engravings drest,
'Midst angels, sinners, saints of Mr. West;
Where brave King Alexander and the Deer,
A noble bustling hodge-podge shall appear,
From that fam'd picture which our wonder drew,
And pour'd its brazen splendours on the view;
Bright as the pictures that with glorious glare,
On pent-house high, in Piccadilly stare,
Where lions seem to roar, and tigers growl,
Hyænas whine, and wolves in concert howl;
And, by their goggling eyes and furious grin,
Inform what shaggy devils lodge within.
Shall bards through jails explore the road to fame?
Like souls of papists in their way to glory,
Doom'd at the half-way house, call'd Purgatory,
156
Like old tobacco-pipes, from black to white?
Yet let me say again, that pow'rful rhime
Hath lifted poets to a state sublime;
To lofty pill'ries rais'd their sacred ears
High o'er the heads of marvelling compeers,
Whose eggs, potatoes, turnips and their tops,
Paid flying homage to their tuneful chops!
Blest state! that gives each fair exalted mien,
To grace in print a monthly magazine;
And deck the shops with sweet engravings drest,
'Midst angels, sinners, saints of Mr. West;
Where brave King Alexander and the Deer,
A noble bustling hodge-podge shall appear,
From that fam'd picture which our wonder drew,
And pour'd its brazen splendours on the view;
Bright as the pictures that with glorious glare,
On pent-house high, in Piccadilly stare,
Where lions seem to roar, and tigers growl,
Hyænas whine, and wolves in concert howl;
And, by their goggling eyes and furious grin,
Inform what shaggy devils lodge within.
Ye Nymphs who, fond of fun, full many a time,
Mount on a jack-ass many a child of rhime,
And make him think, astride his braying hack,
He moves sublime on Pegasus's back:
Ye Muses, oft by brainless poets sought
To bid the stanza chime, and swell with thought:
Who, whelping for oblivion, fain would save
Their whining puppies from the sullen wave;
Assist me! ye who visit towns and hovels,
To teach our girls in bibs to eke out novels,
And treat with scorn (far nobler knowledge studying)
The humbler art of making pie or pudding:
Who make our Sapphos of their verses vain,
And fancy all Parnassus in their brain;
And, 'midst the bustle of their lucubrations,
Take downright madness for your inspirations;
Charm'd with the cadence of a lucky line,
Who taste a rapture equal, George to thine;
When, blest at Datchet, thro' thy Herschell's glass,
That brings from distant worlds a horse, an ass,
A tree, a windmill, to the curious eye,
Shirts, stockings, blankets, that on hedges dry,
Thine eyes, at evenings late, and mornings soon,
Unsated feast on wonders in the moon;
Where Herschell on volcanoes, mountains, pores,
And happy nature's true sublime explores;
Whilst thou, so modest (wonderful to tell!)
On lunar trifles art content to dwell,
Flies, grasshoppers, grubs, cobwebs, cuckow spittle
In short, delighted with the world of little;
Which West shall paint, and grave Sir Joseph Banks
Receive from thy historic mouth with thanks;
Then bid the vermin on the journals crawl,
Hop, jump, and flutter, to amuse us all.
Mount on a jack-ass many a child of rhime,
And make him think, astride his braying hack,
He moves sublime on Pegasus's back:
Ye Muses, oft by brainless poets sought
To bid the stanza chime, and swell with thought:
Who, whelping for oblivion, fain would save
Their whining puppies from the sullen wave;
Assist me! ye who visit towns and hovels,
To teach our girls in bibs to eke out novels,
And treat with scorn (far nobler knowledge studying)
The humbler art of making pie or pudding:
Who make our Sapphos of their verses vain,
And fancy all Parnassus in their brain;
157
Take downright madness for your inspirations;
Charm'd with the cadence of a lucky line,
Who taste a rapture equal, George to thine;
When, blest at Datchet, thro' thy Herschell's glass,
That brings from distant worlds a horse, an ass,
A tree, a windmill, to the curious eye,
Shirts, stockings, blankets, that on hedges dry,
Thine eyes, at evenings late, and mornings soon,
Unsated feast on wonders in the moon;
Where Herschell on volcanoes, mountains, pores,
And happy nature's true sublime explores;
Whilst thou, so modest (wonderful to tell!)
On lunar trifles art content to dwell,
Flies, grasshoppers, grubs, cobwebs, cuckow spittle
In short, delighted with the world of little;
Which West shall paint, and grave Sir Joseph Banks
Receive from thy historic mouth with thanks;
Then bid the vermin on the journals crawl,
Hop, jump, and flutter, to amuse us all.
And thou, great Patron
of the double quill,
That flays by rhime, and murders by a pill,
A pretty kind of double-barrel'd gun,
More giv'n to tragedy than comic fun;
Auspicious Patron of the paunch and backs
Of those all-daring rascals christen'd quacks,
To whom our purse and lives are legal plunder,
Who, hawk-like, keep the human species under:
That flays by rhime, and murders by a pill,
A pretty kind of double-barrel'd gun,
More giv'n to tragedy than comic fun;
Auspicious Patron of the paunch and backs
Of those all-daring rascals christen'd quacks,
To whom our purse and lives are legal plunder,
Who, hawk-like, keep the human species under:
God of those gentlemen of gingling brains,
Who, for their own amusement, print their strains;
Strains that ne'er soar'd beyond the beetle's flight,
Save on the pinions of a school-boy's kite;
Strains arrant strangers to a depth profound,
Save when deep pilgrimaging under ground,
In humble rags, like tinners in a mine,
They pay their court to Cloacina's shrine;
Strains that no ray of light nor warmth proclaim,
Save when, committed to the fire, they flame;
Strains that a circulation never found,
Save when they turn'd on beef or ven'son round:
Oh! aid, as lofty Homer says, my nouse,
To sing sublime the Monarch and the Louse!
Who, for their own amusement, print their strains;
Strains that ne'er soar'd beyond the beetle's flight,
Save on the pinions of a school-boy's kite;
Strains arrant strangers to a depth profound,
Save when deep pilgrimaging under ground,
In humble rags, like tinners in a mine,
They pay their court to Cloacina's shrine;
158
Save when, committed to the fire, they flame;
Strains that a circulation never found,
Save when they turn'd on beef or ven'son round:
Oh! aid, as lofty Homer says, my nouse,
To sing sublime the Monarch and the Louse!
Nymphs, Phœbus, in my first heroic chapter
I should have pray'd for crumbs of tuneful rapture:
Thus to forget my friends was not so clever;
But, says the proverb, ‘better late than never.’
I should have pray'd for crumbs of tuneful rapture:
Thus to forget my friends was not so clever;
But, says the proverb, ‘better late than never.’
Well! since I'm in the invocation trade,
To Conscience let my compliments be paid—
To Conscience let my compliments be paid—
Conscience, a terrifying little sprite,
That, bat-like, winks by day, and wakes by night;
Hunts thro' the heart's dark holes each lurking vice,
As sharp as weasels hunting eggs or mice;
Who, when the lightnings flash, and thunders crack,
Makes our hair bristle like a hedge-hog's back;
Shakes, ague-like, our hearts with wild commotion;
Uplifts our saint-like eyes with dread devotion;
Bids the poor trembling tongue make terms with Heav'n,
And promise miracles to be forgiv'n;
Bid spectres rise, not very like the Graces,
With goggling eyes, black-beards, and Tyburn faces;
With scenes of fires of glowing brimstone scares,
Spits, forks, and proper culinary wares,
For roasting, broiling, frying, fricasseeing
The soul, that sad offending little being;
That stubborn stuff, of salamander make,
Proof to the fury of the burning lake:
That, bat-like, winks by day, and wakes by night;
Hunts thro' the heart's dark holes each lurking vice,
As sharp as weasels hunting eggs or mice;
Who, when the lightnings flash, and thunders crack,
Makes our hair bristle like a hedge-hog's back;
Shakes, ague-like, our hearts with wild commotion;
Uplifts our saint-like eyes with dread devotion;
Bids the poor trembling tongue make terms with Heav'n,
And promise miracles to be forgiv'n;
Bid spectres rise, not very like the Graces,
With goggling eyes, black-beards, and Tyburn faces;
With scenes of fires of glowing brimstone scares,
Spits, forks, and proper culinary wares,
For roasting, broiling, frying, fricasseeing
The soul, that sad offending little being;
That stubborn stuff, of salamander make,
Proof to the fury of the burning lake:
O Conscience! thou strait jacket of the soul,
The madding sallies of the bard control;
Who, when inclin'd, like brother bards, to lie,
Bring Truth's neglected form before his eye;
Fair maid! to towns and courts a stranger grown,
And now to rural swains almost unknown,
Whose company was once their prudent choice;
Who once, delighted listen'd to her voice;
When in their hearts the gentler passion strove,
And Constancy went hand in hand with Love!
Sweet Truth, who steals through lonely shades along,
And mingles with the turtle's note her song;
Whilst Falsehood, rais'd by sycophantic tricks:
Unblushing, flaunts it in a coach and six:
The madding sallies of the bard control;
Who, when inclin'd, like brother bards, to lie,
Bring Truth's neglected form before his eye;
Fair maid! to towns and courts a stranger grown,
And now to rural swains almost unknown,
Whose company was once their prudent choice;
Who once, delighted listen'd to her voice;
159
And Constancy went hand in hand with Love!
Sweet Truth, who steals through lonely shades along,
And mingles with the turtle's note her song;
Whilst Falsehood, rais'd by sycophantic tricks:
Unblushing, flaunts it in a coach and six:
Conscience! who bid'st our monarch, from the nation,
Send sons to Gottingen for education,
Since helpless Cam and Isis, lost to knowledge,
Are idiots to this Hanoverian college,
Where simple science beams with orient ray;
The great, the glorious Athens of the day!
So says the ruler of us English fools,
Who cannot judge like him of Wisdom's schools.
Send sons to Gottingen for education,
Since helpless Cam and Isis, lost to knowledge,
Are idiots to this Hanoverian college,
Where simple science beams with orient ray;
The great, the glorious Athens of the day!
So says the ruler of us English fools,
Who cannot judge like him of Wisdom's schools.
Dear attic Gottingen! to thee I bow,
Of knowledge, oh! most wonderful milch cow!
From whom huge pails the royal boys shall bring,
And give, we hope, a little to the ------.
Through thee, besides the knowledge they may reap,
The lads shall get their board and lodging cheap
And learn, like their good parents to subsist
Within the limits of the Civil List;
Who seldom bid a minister implore
A little farther pittance for the poor!
Of knowledge, oh! most wonderful milch cow!
From whom huge pails the royal boys shall bring,
And give, we hope, a little to the ------.
Through thee, besides the knowledge they may reap,
The lads shall get their board and lodging cheap
And learn, like their good parents to subsist
Within the limits of the Civil List;
Who seldom bid a minister implore
A little farther pittance for the poor!
Conscience! who, to the wonder of his sire,
Bad'st from his wonted state a prince retire,
And, like a subject, humbly seek the shade,
That not a tradesman might remain unpaid:
An action that the soul of Envy stings—
A deed unmention'd in the book of Kings:
Bad'st from his wonted state a prince retire,
And, like a subject, humbly seek the shade,
That not a tradesman might remain unpaid:
An action that the soul of Envy stings—
A deed unmention'd in the book of Kings:
Conscience! who mad'st a monarch, by thy pow'r,
Send pris'ner the fam'd di'mond to the Tow'r;
So witchingly that look'd him in the face,
And impudently sought to bribe his grace:
Where, too, the cradle and the bed shall rest,
That on the same damn'd errand left the East—
Thus fall of gem and pearl the treas'nous tribe,
And beds and cradles that would monarchs bribe!
Send pris'ner the fam'd di'mond to the Tow'r;
So witchingly that look'd him in the face,
And impudently sought to bribe his grace:
160
That on the same damn'd errand left the East—
Thus fall of gem and pearl the treas'nous tribe,
And beds and cradles that would monarchs bribe!
Conscience! who now canst like a cart-horse draw;
Now, lifeless sinking, scarcely lift a straw;
So different are thy pow'rs at diff'rent times,
Thou dear companion of the man of rhimes!
Thou! who at times canst like a lion roar
For one poor sixpence; yet, like North, canst snore,
Though rapine, murder, try to ope thine eyes,
And raging Hell with all his horrors rise;
Whose eye on petty frauds can fiercely flame,
Yet wink at full-blown crimes that blast a name!
Now, lifeless sinking, scarcely lift a straw;
So different are thy pow'rs at diff'rent times,
Thou dear companion of the man of rhimes!
Thou! who at times canst like a lion roar
For one poor sixpence; yet, like North, canst snore,
Though rapine, murder, try to ope thine eyes,
And raging Hell with all his horrors rise;
Whose eye on petty frauds can fiercely flame,
Yet wink at full-blown crimes that blast a name!
O Conscience! who didst bid to madness work
(So great thy pow'r) the brain of hapless Yorke,
And mad'st him cut from ear to ear his throat,
That luckless spoil'd his patriotic note;
Yet wantedst strength to force from his hard eye
One drop—who help'd him to yon spangled sky;
Whose damned pray'rs, feign'd tears, and tongue of art
Won on the weakness of his honest heart!
Poor Yorke! without a stone whose reliques lie,
Though Virtue mark'd the murder with a sigh!
(So great thy pow'r) the brain of hapless Yorke,
And mad'st him cut from ear to ear his throat,
That luckless spoil'd his patriotic note;
Yet wantedst strength to force from his hard eye
One drop—who help'd him to yon spangled sky;
Whose damned pray'rs, feign'd tears, and tongue of art
Won on the weakness of his honest heart!
Poor Yorke! without a stone whose reliques lie,
Though Virtue mark'd the murder with a sigh!
O Conscience! who to Clive didst give the knife
That, desp'rate plunging, took his forfeit life;
Who, lawless plund'rer, in his wild career,
Whelm'd Asia's eye with woe, and heart with fear
Whose wheels on carnage roll'd, and, drench'd with blood,
From gasping nature forc'd the blushing flood;
Whilst Havock, panting with triumphant breath,
Nerv'd his red arm, and hail'd the hills of death.—
And now to thee, O lovely Fame, I bend;
Let all thy trumpets this great work commend;
Give one apiece to all the learn'd Reviews,
And bid them sound the labours of the Muse:
Give to the Magazines a trumpet each,
And let the swelling note to doomsday reach:
To daily news-papers a trumpet give:
Thus shall my epic strain for ever live:
Thus shall my book descend to distant times,
And rapt posterity resound my rhimes.
By future beauties shall each tome be prest,
And, like their lapdogs live a parlour guest.
That, desp'rate plunging, took his forfeit life;
Who, lawless plund'rer, in his wild career,
Whelm'd Asia's eye with woe, and heart with fear
Whose wheels on carnage roll'd, and, drench'd with blood,
From gasping nature forc'd the blushing flood;
Whilst Havock, panting with triumphant breath,
Nerv'd his red arm, and hail'd the hills of death.—
And now to thee, O lovely Fame, I bend;
Let all thy trumpets this great work commend;
Give one apiece to all the learn'd Reviews,
And bid them sound the labours of the Muse:
161
And let the swelling note to doomsday reach:
To daily news-papers a trumpet give:
Thus shall my epic strain for ever live:
Thus shall my book descend to distant times,
And rapt posterity resound my rhimes.
By future beauties shall each tome be prest,
And, like their lapdogs live a parlour guest.
Thee, dearest Fame, some mercenaries hail,
Merely to gain their labours a good sale;
Or rise to fair preferment by thy tongue,
Though deaf as adders to thy charms of song;
Just as the hypocrites say pray'rs, sing psalms,
Bestow upon the blind and cripple alms;
Yield glory to the Pow'r who rules above,
Not from a principle of heav'nly love,
But, sneaking rascals! to obtain—when dead—
A comfortable lodging over head,
When, forc'd by age, or doctors, or their spouses,
The vagrants quit their sublunary houses.
Merely to gain their labours a good sale;
Or rise to fair preferment by thy tongue,
Though deaf as adders to thy charms of song;
Just as the hypocrites say pray'rs, sing psalms,
Bestow upon the blind and cripple alms;
Yield glory to the Pow'r who rules above,
Not from a principle of heav'nly love,
But, sneaking rascals! to obtain—when dead—
A comfortable lodging over head,
When, forc'd by age, or doctors, or their spouses,
The vagrants quit their sublunary houses.
With tiresome invocation having done,
At length our glorious epic may go on.—
Lo! Madam Schwellenberg, inclin'd to cram,
Was wondrous busy o'er a plate of ham;
A ham that once adorn'd a German pig,
Rough as a bear, and as a jack-ass big;
In woods of Westphaly by hunters smitten,
And sent a present to the queen of Britain.
At length our glorious epic may go on.—
Lo! Madam Schwellenberg, inclin'd to cram,
Was wondrous busy o'er a plate of ham;
A ham that once adorn'd a German pig,
Rough as a bear, and as a jack-ass big;
In woods of Westphaly by hunters smitten,
And sent a present to the queen of Britain.
But ere we farther march, ye Muses say,
Somewhat of Madam Schwellenberg, I pray:—
If ancient poets mention but a horse,
We read his genealogy of course:
Oh! say, shall horses boast the deathless line;
And o'er a lady's lineage sleep the Nine?
Somewhat of Madam Schwellenberg, I pray:—
If ancient poets mention but a horse,
We read his genealogy of course:
Oh! say, shall horses boast the deathless line;
And o'er a lady's lineage sleep the Nine?
By virtue of her father and her mother,
This woman saw the light without much pother;
That is,—no grand commotions shook our earth—
Apollo danc'd no hornpipe at her birth,
To say to what perfection she was born,
What wit, what wisdom should the nymph adorn:
No bees around her lips in clusters hung,
To tell the future sweetness of her tongue;
Around her cradle perch'd no cooing dove,
To mark the soul of innocence and love;
No smiling Cupids round her cradle play'd,
To show the future conquests of the maid;
Whose charms would make the jealous sex her foes,
And with their lightnings blast a thousand beaus.
Indeed the Muse must own a trifling pother
Sprung up between the father and the mother;
For after taking methods how to gain her,
They knew not how the dev'l they should maintain her.
This woman saw the light without much pother;
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Apollo danc'd no hornpipe at her birth,
To say to what perfection she was born,
What wit, what wisdom should the nymph adorn:
No bees around her lips in clusters hung,
To tell the future sweetness of her tongue;
Around her cradle perch'd no cooing dove,
To mark the soul of innocence and love;
No smiling Cupids round her cradle play'd,
To show the future conquests of the maid;
Whose charms would make the jealous sex her foes,
And with their lightnings blast a thousand beaus.
Indeed the Muse must own a trifling pother
Sprung up between the father and the mother;
For after taking methods how to gain her,
They knew not how the dev'l they should maintain her.
Heav'ns! what! no prodigy attend her birth,
Who awes the greatest palace upon earth?
Yes!—a black cat around the bantling squall'd,
Join'd its young cries, and all the house appall'd:
Now here, now there, he sprung with visage wild,
And made a bold attempt to kiss the child;
Bats pour'd in hideous hosts into the room,
And, imp-like, flitting, form'd a sudden gloom;
Then to the cradle rush'd the dark'ning throng,
And, raptur'd, shriek'd congratulating song;
Which song, in concert with the squalls of puss,
Seem'd, in plain German, ‘Thou art one of us.’
In Strelitz first this dame the light espy'd,
Born to a good inheritance of pride;
For, howe'er paradoxical it be,
Pride pigs with people of a low degree,
As well as with your folks of fortune struts;
Like rats that live in palaces or huts;
Or bugs, an animal of pompous gait,
That dwell in beds of straw or beds of state;
Or monkeys vile, whose tooth inglorious grapples,
Now with ananas, now with rotten apples.
Hail, Proteus Pride, whose various powers of throat
Can swell the trumpet's loud and saucy note;
And if a meaner air can serve thy turn,
In panting, quiv'ring sounds of Jews'-harps, mourn!
Hail, Pride, companion of the great and little,
So abject, who canst lick a patron's spittle;
Whine like a sneaking puppy at his door,
And turn the hind part of thy wig before;
Nay, if he orders, turn it inside out,
And wear it, merry-andrew like, about;
Heed not the grinning world a single rush,
But bear its pointed scorn without a blush.
Yet fain wouldst thou the crouching world bestride,
Just like the Rhodian Bully o'er the tide;
The brazen wonder of the world of yore,
That proudly stretch'd his legs from shore to shore,
And saw of Greece the loftiest navy travel,
In dread submission underneath his navel.
Who awes the greatest palace upon earth?
Yes!—a black cat around the bantling squall'd,
Join'd its young cries, and all the house appall'd:
Now here, now there, he sprung with visage wild,
And made a bold attempt to kiss the child;
Bats pour'd in hideous hosts into the room,
And, imp-like, flitting, form'd a sudden gloom;
Then to the cradle rush'd the dark'ning throng,
And, raptur'd, shriek'd congratulating song;
Which song, in concert with the squalls of puss,
Seem'd, in plain German, ‘Thou art one of us.’
In Strelitz first this dame the light espy'd,
Born to a good inheritance of pride;
For, howe'er paradoxical it be,
Pride pigs with people of a low degree,
As well as with your folks of fortune struts;
Like rats that live in palaces or huts;
Or bugs, an animal of pompous gait,
That dwell in beds of straw or beds of state;
Or monkeys vile, whose tooth inglorious grapples,
Now with ananas, now with rotten apples.
163
Can swell the trumpet's loud and saucy note;
And if a meaner air can serve thy turn,
In panting, quiv'ring sounds of Jews'-harps, mourn!
Hail, Pride, companion of the great and little,
So abject, who canst lick a patron's spittle;
Whine like a sneaking puppy at his door,
And turn the hind part of thy wig before;
Nay, if he orders, turn it inside out,
And wear it, merry-andrew like, about;
Heed not the grinning world a single rush,
But bear its pointed scorn without a blush.
Yet fain wouldst thou the crouching world bestride,
Just like the Rhodian Bully o'er the tide;
The brazen wonder of the world of yore,
That proudly stretch'd his legs from shore to shore,
And saw of Greece the loftiest navy travel,
In dread submission underneath his navel.
So much for pride—great, little, humble, vain;
And now for Madam Schwellenberg again.
And now for Madam Schwellenberg again.
Whether the nymph could ever boast a grace,
That deign'd to pay a visit to her face,
The Muse is ignorant, she must allow;
Yet knows this truth, that not one sparkles now.
If ever beauties, in delight excelling,
Charm'd on her cheek, they long have left their dwelling.
This nymph a mantuamaker was, I ween,
And priz'd for cheapness by our saving queen,
Who (where's the mighty harm of loving money?)
Brought her to this fair land of milk and honey,
And plac'd her in a most important sphere—
Inspectress General of the royal geer.
That deign'd to pay a visit to her face,
The Muse is ignorant, she must allow;
Yet knows this truth, that not one sparkles now.
If ever beauties, in delight excelling,
Charm'd on her cheek, they long have left their dwelling.
This nymph a mantuamaker was, I ween,
And priz'd for cheapness by our saving queen,
Who (where's the mighty harm of loving money?)
Brought her to this fair land of milk and honey,
And plac'd her in a most important sphere—
Inspectress General of the royal geer.
Soon as this woman heard the Louse's tale,
At once she turn'd, like walls of plaster pale.
But first the ham of Westphaly she gobbled,
And then to seek the Lord's Anointed hobbled:
Him full of wrath, like Peleus' son of yore,
When Agamemnon took away his w---,
In all the bitterness of wrath she found;
The queen and royal children staring round.
‘O Swelly!—thus the madden'd monarch roar'd,
Whilst wild impatience wing'd each rapid word;
For, lo! the solemn march of graceful speech,
The king long since had bid to kiss his b---h.
The broken language that his mouth affords
Are heads and tails, and legs and wings of words,
That give imagination's laughing eye
A lively picture of a giblet pie.
At once she turn'd, like walls of plaster pale.
But first the ham of Westphaly she gobbled,
And then to seek the Lord's Anointed hobbled:
Him full of wrath, like Peleus' son of yore,
When Agamemnon took away his w---,
164
The queen and royal children staring round.
‘O Swelly!—thus the madden'd monarch roar'd,
Whilst wild impatience wing'd each rapid word;
For, lo! the solemn march of graceful speech,
The king long since had bid to kiss his b---h.
The broken language that his mouth affords
Are heads and tails, and legs and wings of words,
That give imagination's laughing eye
A lively picture of a giblet pie.
‘O Swelly, Swelly!’ cry'd the furious king,
‘What! what a dirty, filthy, nasty thing!—
That thus you come to ease my angry mind,
Indeed is very, very, very, very kind.—
What's your opinion, hæ!’—the monarch rav'd:
‘Yes, yes, the cooks shall ev'ry one be shav'd—
What! what! hæ! hæ! now tell me, Swelly, pray,
Shan't I be right in't—What! what! Swelly, hæ?
Yes, yes, I'm sure on't, by the Louse's looks,
That he belong'd to some one of the cooks.—
Speak, Swelly; shan't we shave each filthy jowl?
Yes, yes, and that we will, upon my soul.’
‘What! what a dirty, filthy, nasty thing!—
That thus you come to ease my angry mind,
Indeed is very, very, very, very kind.—
What's your opinion, hæ!’—the monarch rav'd:
‘Yes, yes, the cooks shall ev'ry one be shav'd—
What! what! hæ! hæ! now tell me, Swelly, pray,
Shan't I be right in't—What! what! Swelly, hæ?
Yes, yes, I'm sure on't, by the Louse's looks,
That he belong'd to some one of the cooks.—
Speak, Swelly; shan't we shave each filthy jowl?
Yes, yes, and that we will, upon my soul.’
To whom the dame, with elevated chin,
Wide-staring eyes, and broad, contemptuous grin:
Wide-staring eyes, and broad, contemptuous grin:
‘Yes, sure as dat my soul is to be sav'd,
So sure de dirty rascals sal be shav'd—
Shav'd to de quick be ev'ry moder's son—
And curse me if I do not see it done:
De barbers soon der nasty locks sal fall on,
Nor leave one standing for a louse to crawl on.
If on der skulls de razor do not shine,
May gowns and petticoats no more be mine—
Curl, club, and pigtail, all sal go to pot,
For such curs'd nastiness, or I'll be rot;
Or else to Strelitz let me quickly fly,
Dat dunghill, dat poor pighouse to de eye;
Where from his own mock trone de prince, so great,
Can jomp into another prince estate—
Yes, by de God dat made dis eart and me,
No single lousy rascal sal go free.’
So sure de dirty rascals sal be shav'd—
Shav'd to de quick be ev'ry moder's son—
And curse me if I do not see it done:
De barbers soon der nasty locks sal fall on,
Nor leave one standing for a louse to crawl on.
If on der skulls de razor do not shine,
May gowns and petticoats no more be mine—
Curl, club, and pigtail, all sal go to pot,
For such curs'd nastiness, or I'll be rot;
Or else to Strelitz let me quickly fly,
Dat dunghill, dat poor pighouse to de eye;
Where from his own mock trone de prince, so great,
Can jomp into another prince estate—
165
No single lousy rascal sal go free.’
Reader, thou raisest both thy marv'lling eyes,
In all the staring wildness of surprise;
As if the poet did not truth revere,
And fanciest gentlewomen could not swear:
Go, fool, and seek the ladies of the mud,
Queens of the lakes, or damsels of the flood,
Nymphs, Nereids, or what vulgar tongues call drabs,
Who vend at Billingsgate their sprats and crabs;
Tell them their fish all stink, and thou wilt hear
Whether fine gentlewomen ever sweare:
Nay, visit many of our courtly dames,
When wrath their dove-like gentleness inflames;
Lo! thou shalt find, by many a naughty word,
They use small ceremony with the Lord,
In spite of all that godly books contain,
That teach them not to take his name in vain.
In all the staring wildness of surprise;
As if the poet did not truth revere,
And fanciest gentlewomen could not swear:
Go, fool, and seek the ladies of the mud,
Queens of the lakes, or damsels of the flood,
Nymphs, Nereids, or what vulgar tongues call drabs,
Who vend at Billingsgate their sprats and crabs;
Tell them their fish all stink, and thou wilt hear
Whether fine gentlewomen ever sweare:
Nay, visit many of our courtly dames,
When wrath their dove-like gentleness inflames;
Lo! thou shalt find, by many a naughty word,
They use small ceremony with the Lord,
In spite of all that godly books contain,
That teach them not to take his name in vain.
‘Thanks, Swelly, thanks, thanks, thanks,’ the king reply'd;
‘Like me you have not got a grain of pride.—
Yes, yes, if I am master of this house—
Yes, yes, the locks shall fall, and then the Louse.’
‘Like me you have not got a grain of pride.—
Yes, yes, if I am master of this house—
Yes, yes, the locks shall fall, and then the Louse.’
He spoke, and to confirm the dreadful doom,
His head he shook, that shook the dining room.
Thus Jove, of old, the dread, the thund'ring god,
Shook, when he swore, Olympus with his nod.
His head he shook, that shook the dining room.
Thus Jove, of old, the dread, the thund'ring god,
Shook, when he swore, Olympus with his nod.
‘Yes,’ cry'd the king—‘yes, yes, their curls shall quake—
But tell me, where, where, where's Sir Francis Drake?’
But tell me, where, where, where's Sir Francis Drake?’
O, reader, think not 'twas that Drake, Sir Francis,
Whose wondrous actions seem almost romances;
Who shone in sense profound, and bloodiest wars,
And rais'd the nation's glory to the stars;
Who first in triumph sail'd around the world,
And vengeance on the foes of Britain hurl'd;
But he who sculks around the royal kitchen,
Which if he catch a neighbour's dog or bitch in,
Lets fly, to strike the four-legg'd mumper dead,
A poker, or a cleaver, at his head.
Not that Sir Francis Drake who, god-like, bore
Fair freedom, science to th' Atlantic shore;
To Pagans gave the Gospel's saving grace,
And planted virtue midst a barb'rous race;
Spread on the darken'd realms the blaze of light—
But he who sees the spoons and plates are bright;
Sees that the knives before the king and queen
Are, like the pair of royal stomachs, keen:
Not he, whose martial frown whole kingdoms shook,
But he whose low'ring visage shakes a cook:
Not he who pour'd on Mexico his tars,
But he, at London, who with linen wars,
Napkins and damask tablecloths assails
With scissars, razors, knives, and teeth, and nails;
Who dares with Doylies desp'rate war to wage,
Such is his province and domestic rage,
If, like his predecessors, he hath grace,
And calls his conquests, perquisites of place.—
'Twas not that Drake who bade his daring crew
Run with their bayonets the Spaniards through;
But that important Drake, in office big,
Instructing cooks to spit a goose or pig:
Not he who took the Spaniards by the nose,
And prisons fill'd with Britain's graceless foes;
But he who bids the geese, his pris'ners, die,
And stuffs their leggs and gizzards in a pie:
He who, three times a week, a green-cloth lord,
Sits, wisdom-fraught, at that important board
With wise compeers, in judge-like order studying,
Whether the king shall have a tart or pudding.
Not he, by virtues to the world endear'd,
By foes respected, and by friends rever'd;
Prompt to relieve the supplicating sigh,
Who never dash'd with tears the asking eye;
But wak'd of joy the long departed beam,
Deep sunk in sorrow's unremitting stream:
But he, with greatness at eternal strife,
Who never gave a sixpence in his life;
Who, if he ever ask'd a friend to dine,
Requested favours that outweigh'd his wine;
From lane to lane, who steals with wary feet;
Just like the cautious hare that seeks his seat:
Who, though a city near him rears her head,
And wealthy villages around him spread,
No friend, no neighbour near his mansion found;
Like Cain he walks in solitude around.
'Twas this Sir Francis, quite a diff'rent man
From him who round the world with glory ran:
Forbid it Heav'n! that e'er the Muse untrue
Should give to any man another's due!
Whose wondrous actions seem almost romances;
Who shone in sense profound, and bloodiest wars,
And rais'd the nation's glory to the stars;
Who first in triumph sail'd around the world,
And vengeance on the foes of Britain hurl'd;
166
Which if he catch a neighbour's dog or bitch in,
Lets fly, to strike the four-legg'd mumper dead,
A poker, or a cleaver, at his head.
Not that Sir Francis Drake who, god-like, bore
Fair freedom, science to th' Atlantic shore;
To Pagans gave the Gospel's saving grace,
And planted virtue midst a barb'rous race;
Spread on the darken'd realms the blaze of light—
But he who sees the spoons and plates are bright;
Sees that the knives before the king and queen
Are, like the pair of royal stomachs, keen:
Not he, whose martial frown whole kingdoms shook,
But he whose low'ring visage shakes a cook:
Not he who pour'd on Mexico his tars,
But he, at London, who with linen wars,
Napkins and damask tablecloths assails
With scissars, razors, knives, and teeth, and nails;
Who dares with Doylies desp'rate war to wage,
Such is his province and domestic rage,
If, like his predecessors, he hath grace,
And calls his conquests, perquisites of place.—
'Twas not that Drake who bade his daring crew
Run with their bayonets the Spaniards through;
But that important Drake, in office big,
Instructing cooks to spit a goose or pig:
Not he who took the Spaniards by the nose,
And prisons fill'd with Britain's graceless foes;
But he who bids the geese, his pris'ners, die,
And stuffs their leggs and gizzards in a pie:
He who, three times a week, a green-cloth lord,
Sits, wisdom-fraught, at that important board
167
Whether the king shall have a tart or pudding.
Not he, by virtues to the world endear'd,
By foes respected, and by friends rever'd;
Prompt to relieve the supplicating sigh,
Who never dash'd with tears the asking eye;
But wak'd of joy the long departed beam,
Deep sunk in sorrow's unremitting stream:
But he, with greatness at eternal strife,
Who never gave a sixpence in his life;
Who, if he ever ask'd a friend to dine,
Requested favours that outweigh'd his wine;
From lane to lane, who steals with wary feet;
Just like the cautious hare that seeks his seat:
Who, though a city near him rears her head,
And wealthy villages around him spread,
No friend, no neighbour near his mansion found;
Like Cain he walks in solitude around.
'Twas this Sir Francis, quite a diff'rent man
From him who round the world with glory ran:
Forbid it Heav'n! that e'er the Muse untrue
Should give to any man another's due!
Muse, leave we now the monarch, vengeance brewing,
To take a peep at what the cooks were doing.
To take a peep at what the cooks were doing.
In that snug room,
the scene of shrewd remark,
Whose window stares upon the saunt'ring park;
Where many a hungry bard, and gambling sinner,
In chop-fall'n sadness, counts the trees for dinner
In that snug room where any man of spunk
Would find it a hard matter to get drunk;
Where coy Tokay ne'er feels a cooks embraces,
Nor port nor claret show their rosy faces;
But where old Adam's beverage flows with pride,
From wide-mouth'd pitchers, in a plenteous tide;
Where veal, pork, mutton, beef, and fowl, and fish,
All club their joints to make one handsome dish;
Where stew-pan covers serve for plates, I ween,
And knives and forks and spoons are never seen;
Where pepper issues from a paper bag,
And for a cruet stands a brandy cag;
Where Madam Schwellenberg too often sits,
Like some old tabby in her mousing fits,
Demurely squinting with majestic mien,
To catch some fault to carry to the queen:
In that snug room, like those immortal Greeks,
Of whom, in book the thirteenth, Ovid speaks—
Around the table, all with sulky looks,
Like culprits doom'd to Tyburn, sat the cooks:
At length, with phiz that show'd the man of woes,
The sorrowing king of spits and stew-pans rose;
Like Paul at Athens, very justly sainted,
And by the charming brush of Raphael painted,
With out-stretch'd hands, and energetic grace,
He fearless thus harangues the roasting race;
Whilst gaping round, in mute attention, sit,
The poor forlorn disciples of the spit:
‘Cooks, scullions, hear me ev'ry mother's son—
Know that I relish not this royal fun:
George thinks us scarcely fit ('tis very clear)
To carry guts, my brethren, to a bear.’—
‘Guts to a bear!’ the cooks, up-springing, cry'd—
‘Guts to a bear,’ the major loud reply'd.
‘Guts to the dev'l!’ loud roar'd the cooks again,
And toss'd their noses high in proud disdain:
The plain translation of whose pointed noses
The reader needeth not, the bard supposes;
But if the reason some dull reader looks,
'Tis this—whatever kings may think of cooks,
Howe'er crown'd heads may deem them low-born things,
Cooks are possess'd of souls as well as kings.
Yet are there some who think (but what a shame!)
Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham,
Adulterated brass—base stuff—abhorr'd—
That never can pass current with the Lord;
And think because of wealth they boast a store,
With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor:
Witness the story that my Muse, with tears,
Relates, O reader, to thy shrinking ears:
Whose window stares upon the saunt'ring park;
Where many a hungry bard, and gambling sinner,
In chop-fall'n sadness, counts the trees for dinner
In that snug room where any man of spunk
Would find it a hard matter to get drunk;
Where coy Tokay ne'er feels a cooks embraces,
Nor port nor claret show their rosy faces;
168
From wide-mouth'd pitchers, in a plenteous tide;
Where veal, pork, mutton, beef, and fowl, and fish,
All club their joints to make one handsome dish;
Where stew-pan covers serve for plates, I ween,
And knives and forks and spoons are never seen;
Where pepper issues from a paper bag,
And for a cruet stands a brandy cag;
Where Madam Schwellenberg too often sits,
Like some old tabby in her mousing fits,
Demurely squinting with majestic mien,
To catch some fault to carry to the queen:
In that snug room, like those immortal Greeks,
Of whom, in book the thirteenth, Ovid speaks—
Around the table, all with sulky looks,
Like culprits doom'd to Tyburn, sat the cooks:
At length, with phiz that show'd the man of woes,
The sorrowing king of spits and stew-pans rose;
Like Paul at Athens, very justly sainted,
And by the charming brush of Raphael painted,
With out-stretch'd hands, and energetic grace,
He fearless thus harangues the roasting race;
Whilst gaping round, in mute attention, sit,
The poor forlorn disciples of the spit:
‘Cooks, scullions, hear me ev'ry mother's son—
Know that I relish not this royal fun:
George thinks us scarcely fit ('tis very clear)
To carry guts, my brethren, to a bear.’—
‘Guts to a bear!’ the cooks, up-springing, cry'd—
‘Guts to a bear,’ the major loud reply'd.
‘Guts to the dev'l!’ loud roar'd the cooks again,
And toss'd their noses high in proud disdain:
The plain translation of whose pointed noses
The reader needeth not, the bard supposes;
But if the reason some dull reader looks,
'Tis this—whatever kings may think of cooks,
Howe'er crown'd heads may deem them low-born things,
Cooks are possess'd of souls as well as kings.
169
Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham,
Adulterated brass—base stuff—abhorr'd—
That never can pass current with the Lord;
And think because of wealth they boast a store,
With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor:
Witness the story that my Muse, with tears,
Relates, O reader, to thy shrinking ears:
With feeble voice and deep desponding sighs,
With sallow cheek and pity-asking eyes,
A wretch, by age and poverty decay'd,
For farthings lately to a nabob pray'd;
The nabob, turkey-like, began to swell,
And damn'd the beggar to the pit of hell.
‘Oh! Sir,’ the supplicant was heard to cry
(The tear of mis'ry trickling from his eye),
‘Though I'm in rags, and wondrous, wondrous poor,
And you with gold and silver cover'd o'er,
There won't in heav'n such difference take place,
When we before the Lord come face to face.’—
‘You face to face with me!’ the nabob cry'd,
In all the insolence of upstart pride:—
‘You face to face with me, you dog, appear!
Damme, I'll kick you, if I catch you there.’—
Oh, shocking blasphemy! oh, horrid speech!
Where was the fellow born? the wicked wretch!—
So black an imp would pull, I do suppose,
A bulse of di'monds from a Begum's nose;
Or make, like Doulah, careless of his soul,
A new edition of the old Black Hole.
‘What's life,’ the major said, ‘my brethren, pray,
If force must snatch our first delights away?
Relentless shall the royal mandate drag
The hairs that long have grac'd this silken bag;
Hairs to a barber scarcely worth a fig,
Too few to make a foretop for a wig?
Must razors vile these locks, so scanty, shave,
Locks that I wish to carry to my grave;
Hairs, look, my lads, so wonderfully thin,
Old Schwellenberg hath more upon her chin?’
‘Yes, that she hath,’ exclaim'd a cook, ‘by G*d,
A damn'd old German good-for-nothing toad.’
‘Yes, yes, her mouth with beard divinely bristles—
Curse me, I'd rather kiss a bunch of thistles,
Oh! were it but his majesty's commands
To give her gentle jawbones to these hands,
I'd shave her, like a punish'd soldier, dry—
I'd pay my compliments to madam's chin—
I'll answer for't I'd make the devil grin—
The razor most deliciously should work—
I'd trim her muzzle—yes, I'd scrape her pork—
I'd teach her to some purpose to behave,
And show the witch the nature of a shave—
O! woman, woman! whether lean or fat,
In face an angel, but in soul a cat!’
He ended—when each mouth upon the stretch,
Crown'd with a loud horse-laugh the classic speech.
With sallow cheek and pity-asking eyes,
A wretch, by age and poverty decay'd,
For farthings lately to a nabob pray'd;
The nabob, turkey-like, began to swell,
And damn'd the beggar to the pit of hell.
‘Oh! Sir,’ the supplicant was heard to cry
(The tear of mis'ry trickling from his eye),
‘Though I'm in rags, and wondrous, wondrous poor,
And you with gold and silver cover'd o'er,
There won't in heav'n such difference take place,
When we before the Lord come face to face.’—
‘You face to face with me!’ the nabob cry'd,
In all the insolence of upstart pride:—
‘You face to face with me, you dog, appear!
Damme, I'll kick you, if I catch you there.’—
Oh, shocking blasphemy! oh, horrid speech!
Where was the fellow born? the wicked wretch!—
So black an imp would pull, I do suppose,
A bulse of di'monds from a Begum's nose;
Or make, like Doulah, careless of his soul,
A new edition of the old Black Hole.
‘What's life,’ the major said, ‘my brethren, pray,
If force must snatch our first delights away?
Relentless shall the royal mandate drag
The hairs that long have grac'd this silken bag;
Hairs to a barber scarcely worth a fig,
Too few to make a foretop for a wig?
Must razors vile these locks, so scanty, shave,
Locks that I wish to carry to my grave;
170
Old Schwellenberg hath more upon her chin?’
‘Yes, that she hath,’ exclaim'd a cook, ‘by G*d,
A damn'd old German good-for-nothing toad.’
‘Yes, yes, her mouth with beard divinely bristles—
Curse me, I'd rather kiss a bunch of thistles,
Oh! were it but his majesty's commands
To give her gentle jawbones to these hands,
I'd shave her, like a punish'd soldier, dry—
I'd pay my compliments to madam's chin—
I'll answer for't I'd make the devil grin—
The razor most deliciously should work—
I'd trim her muzzle—yes, I'd scrape her pork—
I'd teach her to some purpose to behave,
And show the witch the nature of a shave—
O! woman, woman! whether lean or fat,
In face an angel, but in soul a cat!’
He ended—when each mouth upon the stretch,
Crown'd with a loud horse-laugh the classic speech.
Too soon, alas! Resentment seiz'd the hour,
And Joke resign'd his grin-provoking pow'r;
Rage dimn'd of mirth the sudden sunny sky,
And fill'd with gloomy oaths each scowling eye;
Whilst Grief, returning, took her turn to reign,
Sunk every heart, and sadden'd ev'ry mien;—
Drew from their giddy heights the laughing graces—
For much is grief dispos'd to bring down faces.
And Joke resign'd his grin-provoking pow'r;
Rage dimn'd of mirth the sudden sunny sky,
And fill'd with gloomy oaths each scowling eye;
Whilst Grief, returning, took her turn to reign,
Sunk every heart, and sadden'd ev'ry mien;—
Drew from their giddy heights the laughing graces—
For much is grief dispos'd to bring down faces.
‘Son of the spit,’ the major, strutting, cry'd,
‘I like thy spirit, and revere thy pride:
I'd rather hear thee than a bishop preach,
For thou hast made a very pretty speech.
Such is the language that the gods should hear,
And such should thunder on the royal ear.
Yet, son of dripping, tho' thou speak'st my notions,
We must not be too nimble in our motions—
Awhile, heroic brothers, let us halt:
Soft fires, the proverb tells us, make sweet malt.
And yet again I bid you stand like rocks,
And battle for the honour of your locks.
Lo! in these aged hairs is all my joy—
To shave them, is my being to destroy.
What's life, if life has not a bliss to give?—
And, if unhappy, who would wish to live?
Content can visit the poor spider'd room;
Pleas'd with the coarse rush mat and birchen broom;
Where parents, children, feast on oaten bread,
With cheeks as round as apples, and as red;
Where health with vigour nerves their backs and hams,
Sweet souls, though ragged as young colts or rams;
Where calmly sleep the parents with their darlings,
Though nibbled by the fleas as thick as starlings;
Lull'd to their rest, beneath the coarsest rugs,
And dead to bitings of a thousand bugs.
‘I like thy spirit, and revere thy pride:
I'd rather hear thee than a bishop preach,
For thou hast made a very pretty speech.
Such is the language that the gods should hear,
And such should thunder on the royal ear.
Yet, son of dripping, tho' thou speak'st my notions,
We must not be too nimble in our motions—
Awhile, heroic brothers, let us halt:
Soft fires, the proverb tells us, make sweet malt.
And yet again I bid you stand like rocks,
And battle for the honour of your locks.
171
To shave them, is my being to destroy.
What's life, if life has not a bliss to give?—
And, if unhappy, who would wish to live?
Content can visit the poor spider'd room;
Pleas'd with the coarse rush mat and birchen broom;
Where parents, children, feast on oaten bread,
With cheeks as round as apples, and as red;
Where health with vigour nerves their backs and hams,
Sweet souls, though ragged as young colts or rams;
Where calmly sleep the parents with their darlings,
Though nibbled by the fleas as thick as starlings;
Lull'd to their rest, beneath the coarsest rugs,
And dead to bitings of a thousand bugs.
Content, mild maid! delights in simple things,
And envies not the state of queens or kings;
Can dine on sheep's head, or a dish of broth,
Without a table or a tablecloth;
Nor wishes, with the fashionable group,
To visit Horton's shop for turtle soup:
Can use a bit of packthread for a jack,
And sit upon a chair without a back:
Nay, wanting knives, can with her fingers work,
And use a wooden skewer for a fork.
Sweet maid! who thinks not shoes of leather shocking,
Nor feels the horrors in a worsted stocking;
Her temper mild, no huckaback can shock,
Though for her lovely limbs it forms a smock:
Pleas'd with the nat'ral curls her face that shade,
No graves are robb'd for hair to form a braid:
Her breast of native plumpness ne'er aspires
To swelling merry thoughts of gauze and wires,
To look like crops of ducks (with labour born)
Stretch'd by a superfluity of corn.
With nature's hips, she sighs not for cork rumps,
And scorns the pride of pinching stays or jumps;
But, pleas'd from whalebone prisons to escape,
She trusts to simple nature for a shape;
Without a warming-pan can go to bed,
And wrap her petticoat about her head;
Nor sigh for cobweb caps of Mechlin lace,
That shade of quality the varnish'd face:
Sweet nymph, like doves, she seeks her straw-built nest,
And in a pair of minutes is undrest;
Whilst all the fashionable female clans,
Undressing, seem unloading caravans.
No matter from what source contentment springs;
'Tis just the same in cooks as 'tis in kings;
And if our souls are set upon our hair,
Let snip-snap barbers, nay, let kings beware,
Nor tempt the dangerous rage of true John Bulls,
And clap, like fools, the edge-tool to our skulls.
Tread on a worm, he shows his rage and pain,
By turning on the wounding toe again;
Nay, ev'n inanimates appear to feel:—
On the loose stone, if chance direct your heel,
Lo! from its womb the sudden stream ascends
To prove the foot was not among its friends;
And calling in the aid of neighbour mud,
O'er the fair stocking spouts the sable flood.’
And envies not the state of queens or kings;
Can dine on sheep's head, or a dish of broth,
Without a table or a tablecloth;
Nor wishes, with the fashionable group,
To visit Horton's shop for turtle soup:
Can use a bit of packthread for a jack,
And sit upon a chair without a back:
Nay, wanting knives, can with her fingers work,
And use a wooden skewer for a fork.
Sweet maid! who thinks not shoes of leather shocking,
Nor feels the horrors in a worsted stocking;
Her temper mild, no huckaback can shock,
Though for her lovely limbs it forms a smock:
Pleas'd with the nat'ral curls her face that shade,
No graves are robb'd for hair to form a braid:
Her breast of native plumpness ne'er aspires
To swelling merry thoughts of gauze and wires,
To look like crops of ducks (with labour born)
Stretch'd by a superfluity of corn.
With nature's hips, she sighs not for cork rumps,
And scorns the pride of pinching stays or jumps;
But, pleas'd from whalebone prisons to escape,
She trusts to simple nature for a shape;
172
And wrap her petticoat about her head;
Nor sigh for cobweb caps of Mechlin lace,
That shade of quality the varnish'd face:
Sweet nymph, like doves, she seeks her straw-built nest,
And in a pair of minutes is undrest;
Whilst all the fashionable female clans,
Undressing, seem unloading caravans.
No matter from what source contentment springs;
'Tis just the same in cooks as 'tis in kings;
And if our souls are set upon our hair,
Let snip-snap barbers, nay, let kings beware,
Nor tempt the dangerous rage of true John Bulls,
And clap, like fools, the edge-tool to our skulls.
Tread on a worm, he shows his rage and pain,
By turning on the wounding toe again;
Nay, ev'n inanimates appear to feel:—
On the loose stone, if chance direct your heel,
Lo! from its womb the sudden stream ascends
To prove the foot was not among its friends;
And calling in the aid of neighbour mud,
O'er the fair stocking spouts the sable flood.’
So spoke the major, with resentment fir'd—
Spoke like a man—indeed, like man inspir'd.—
Some critic cries, with sharp, fastidious look,
‘Bard, bard, this is not language for a cook.’—
O snarler! but I'll lay thee any wager,
It is not too sublime for a cook-major.
Spoke like a man—indeed, like man inspir'd.—
Some critic cries, with sharp, fastidious look,
‘Bard, bard, this is not language for a cook.’—
O snarler! but I'll lay thee any wager,
It is not too sublime for a cook-major.
‘Behold! to remedy our sad condition,’
The major cry'd, ‘I've cook'd up a petition:
This carries weight with it, or I'm mistaken,
Shall shake the monarch's soul, and save our bacon.’
Then jumping on a barrel, thus aloud
He read sonorous to the gaping crowd.
The major cry'd, ‘I've cook'd up a petition:
This carries weight with it, or I'm mistaken,
Shall shake the monarch's soul, and save our bacon.’
Then jumping on a barrel, thus aloud
He read sonorous to the gaping crowd.
Thus reads a parish-clerk in church a brief,
That begs for burnt-out wretches kind relief—
Relief, alas! that very rarely reaches
The poor petitioners, the ruin'd wretches;
But (lost its way) unfortunately steers
To fat churchwardens and fat overseers;
Improves each dish, augments the punch and ale,
And adds new spirit to the smutty tale.
That begs for burnt-out wretches kind relief—
173
The poor petitioners, the ruin'd wretches;
But (lost its way) unfortunately steers
To fat churchwardens and fat overseers;
Improves each dish, augments the punch and ale,
And adds new spirit to the smutty tale.
It was a common practice, in the last and preceding reigns, to tear and cut the royal linen privately, which, on account of the teeth, knife, nail, or scissar wounds, were never more used, but went as perquisites to treasurers and masters of the household.
THE PETITION OF THE COOKS.
‘Your majesty's firm friends and faithful cooks,
Who in your palace merry liv'd as grigs,
Have heard, with heavy hearts and down-cast looks,
That we must all be shav'd, and put on wigs:
You, sire, who with such honour wear your crown,
Should never bring on ours disgraces down.
Who in your palace merry liv'd as grigs,
Have heard, with heavy hearts and down-cast looks,
That we must all be shav'd, and put on wigs:
You, sire, who with such honour wear your crown,
Should never bring on ours disgraces down.
Dread sir! we really deem our heads our own,
With ev'ry sprig of hair that on them springs:—
In France, where men like spaniels lick the throne,
And count it glory to be cuff'd by kings,
Their locks belong unto the Grand Monarque,
Who swallows privileges like a shark.
With ev'ry sprig of hair that on them springs:—
In France, where men like spaniels lick the throne,
And count it glory to be cuff'd by kings,
Their locks belong unto the Grand Monarque,
Who swallows privileges like a shark.
Be pleas'd to pardon what we now advance;—
We dare your sacred majesty assure,
That there's a diff'rence between us and France;
And long, we hope, that diff'rence will endure.
We know King Lewis would, with pow'r so dread,
Not only cut the hair off, but the head.
We dare your sacred majesty assure,
That there's a diff'rence between us and France;
And long, we hope, that diff'rence will endure.
We know King Lewis would, with pow'r so dread,
Not only cut the hair off, but the head.
Oh! tell us, sir, in loyalty so true,
What dire designing raggamuffins said,
That we, your cooks, are such a nasty crew,
Great sir! as to have crawlers in our head?
My liege, you can't find one through all our house,—
Not if you'd give a guinea for a louse.
What dire designing raggamuffins said,
That we, your cooks, are such a nasty crew,
Great sir! as to have crawlers in our head?
174
Not if you'd give a guinea for a louse.
What creature 'twas you found upon your plate
We know not—if a louse, it was not ours:—
To shave each cook's poor unoffending pate,
Betrays too much of arbitrary pow'rs;—
The act humanity and justice shocks:—
Let him who owns the crawler lose his locks.
We know not—if a louse, it was not ours:—
To shave each cook's poor unoffending pate,
Betrays too much of arbitrary pow'rs;—
The act humanity and justice shocks:—
Let him who owns the crawler lose his locks.
But grant upon your plate this louse so dread,
How can you say, sir, it belongs to us?
Maggots are found in many a princely head;
And if a maggot, why then not a louse?
Nay, grant the fact;—with horror should you shrink?
It could not eat your majesty, we think.
How can you say, sir, it belongs to us?
Maggots are found in many a princely head;
And if a maggot, why then not a louse?
Nay, grant the fact;—with horror should you shrink?
It could not eat your majesty, we think.
Hunger, my liege, hath oft been felt by kings,
As well as people of inferior state;—
Quarrels with cooks are therefore dangerous things—
We cannot answer for your stomach's fate;
For, by your size, we frankly must declare,
You feed on more substantial stuff than air.
As well as people of inferior state;—
Quarrels with cooks are therefore dangerous things—
We cannot answer for your stomach's fate;
For, by your size, we frankly must declare,
You feed on more substantial stuff than air.
My liege, a universe hath been your foes:
The times have look'd most miserably black—
America hath try'd to pull your nose—
French, Dutch, and Spaniards, try'd to bang your back:
'Twould be a serious matter, we can tell ye,
Were we to buccaneer it on your belly.
The times have look'd most miserably black—
America hath try'd to pull your nose—
French, Dutch, and Spaniards, try'd to bang your back:
'Twould be a serious matter, we can tell ye,
Were we to buccaneer it on your belly.
You see the spirit of your cooks, then, sire—
Determin'd nobly to support their locks;
And should your guards be order'd out to fire,
Their guns may be oppos'd by spits and crocks:
Knives, forks, and spoons, may fly, with plates a store,
And all the thunder of the kitchen roar.
Determin'd nobly to support their locks;
And should your guards be order'd out to fire,
Their guns may be oppos'd by spits and crocks:
Knives, forks, and spoons, may fly, with plates a store,
And all the thunder of the kitchen roar.
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Nat. Gardner, yeoman of the mouth, declares
He'll join the standard of your injur'd cooks—
Each scullion, turn broche, for redress prepares,
And puts on very formidable looks:
Your women too—imprimis, Mistress Dyer,
Whose eggs are good as ever felt a fire:
He'll join the standard of your injur'd cooks—
Each scullion, turn broche, for redress prepares,
And puts on very formidable looks:
Your women too—imprimis, Mistress Dyer,
Whose eggs are good as ever felt a fire:
Next sweeper-general Bickley, Mistress Mary,
With that fam'd bell-ringer, call'd Mistress Loman—
Ann Spencer, guardian of the necessary,
That is to say, the necessary woman—
All these, an't please you, sir, so fierce, determine
To join us in the cause of hair and vermin.
With that fam'd bell-ringer, call'd Mistress Loman—
Ann Spencer, guardian of the necessary,
That is to say, the necessary woman—
All these, an't please you, sir, so fierce, determine
To join us in the cause of hair and vermin.
There's Mistress Stewart, Mister Richard Day,
Who find your sacred majesty in linen,
Are ready to support us in our fray—
You can't conceive the passion they have been in;
They swear so much your scheme of shaving hurts,
You shan't have pocket-handkerchiefs or shirts.
Who find your sacred majesty in linen,
Are ready to support us in our fray—
You can't conceive the passion they have been in;
They swear so much your scheme of shaving hurts,
You shan't have pocket-handkerchiefs or shirts.
The grocers, Clark and Taylor, curse the scheme,
And say, whate'er we do, the world won't blame us—
So Comber says who gives you milk and cream—
And thus your old friend Mister Lewis Ramus:
We think your sacred majesty would mutter
At loss of sugar, milk, and cream and butter.
And say, whate'er we do, the world won't blame us—
So Comber says who gives you milk and cream—
And thus your old friend Mister Lewis Ramus:
We think your sacred majesty would mutter
At loss of sugar, milk, and cream and butter.
Suppose, an't please you, sir, that Mistress Knutton
And Mistress Maishfield, fierce as tiger cats;
One overseer of all the beef and mutton,
The other lady president of sprats—
Suppose, in opposition to your wish,
This locks away the flesh, and that the fish?
And Mistress Maishfield, fierce as tiger cats;
One overseer of all the beef and mutton,
The other lady president of sprats—
Suppose, in opposition to your wish,
This locks away the flesh, and that the fish?
Suppose John Clarke refuse supplies of mustard,
So necessary to your beef and bacon
Will Roberts, all the apple-pie and custard?
Your majesty would growl, or we're mistaken.—
Suppose that Wells, to plague your stomach studying,
From Sunday, sacrilegious, steals the pudding?
So necessary to your beef and bacon
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Your majesty would growl, or we're mistaken.—
Suppose that Wells, to plague your stomach studying,
From Sunday, sacrilegious, steals the pudding?
Suppose that Rainsforth with our corps unites;
We mean the man who all the tallow handles—
Suppose he locks up all the mutton lights—
How could your majesty contrive for candles
You'd be (excuse the freedom of remark)
Like some administrations—in the dark.
We mean the man who all the tallow handles—
Suppose he locks up all the mutton lights—
How could your majesty contrive for candles
You'd be (excuse the freedom of remark)
Like some administrations—in the dark.
We dare assure you that our grief is great—
And oft, indeed, our feelings it enrages,
To see your sacred majesty beset
By such a graceless gang of idle pages—
And, with submission to your judgment, sire,
We think old Madam Schwellenberg a liar.
And oft, indeed, our feelings it enrages,
To see your sacred majesty beset
By such a graceless gang of idle pages—
And, with submission to your judgment, sire,
We think old Madam Schwellenberg a liar.
Suppose, great sir, that by your cruel fiat,
The barbers should attack our humble head,
And that we should not choose to breed a riot,
Because we might not wish to lose our bread;
Say, would the triumph o'er each harmless cook
Make George the Third like Alexander look?
The barbers should attack our humble head,
And that we should not choose to breed a riot,
Because we might not wish to lose our bread;
Say, would the triumph o'er each harmless cook
Make George the Third like Alexander look?
Dread sir, reflect on Johnny Wilkes's fate,
Supported chiefly by a paltry rabble—
Wilkes bade defiance to your frowns and state,
And got the better in that famous squabble;
Poor was the victory you wish'd to win,
That set the mouth of Europe on the grin.
Supported chiefly by a paltry rabble—
Wilkes bade defiance to your frowns and state,
And got the better in that famous squabble;
Poor was the victory you wish'd to win,
That set the mouth of Europe on the grin.
O king, our wives are in the kitchen roaring,
All ready in rebellion now to rise—
They mock our humble method of imploring,
And bid us guard against a wig surprise:—
‘Yours is the hair,’ they cry'd, ‘th' Almighty gave ye,
And not a king in Christendom should shave ye.’
All ready in rebellion now to rise—
They mock our humble method of imploring,
And bid us guard against a wig surprise:—
‘Yours is the hair,’ they cry'd, ‘th' Almighty gave ye,
And not a king in Christendom should shave ye.’
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Lo! on th' event the world impatient looks,
And thinks the joke is carried much too far—
Then pray, sir, listen to your faithful cooks,
Nor in the palace breed a civil war:
Loud roars our band, and, obstinate as pigs,
Cry, ‘Locks and liberty, and damn the wigs!’
And thinks the joke is carried much too far—
Then pray, sir, listen to your faithful cooks,
Nor in the palace breed a civil war:
Loud roars our band, and, obstinate as pigs,
Cry, ‘Locks and liberty, and damn the wigs!’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |