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

A sublime, natural, elegant, and original Description of Night—Modesty of the Stars—Slumbering Situation of their M---j---s, with a Compliment to their Constancy—The charming Princesses asleep—high Compliments bestowed on them—A prophetic Suggestion of a Courtship between one of our Princesses and some great German Duke—An Account of Mr. Morpheus, vulgarly called the God of Sleep—his Civility to the People, in giving them pretty Dreams, by way of Compensation for shutting up their Mouths, Eyes, and Ears, for a dozen or fourteen Hours together—The solemn Amusements of Silence—A Night-Picture of London—The Palace, a Night-Scene—The Goodness of certain Court Lords to the Maids of Honour—Kind Embraces placed in a new Light, and vindicated—More Account of the Palace; containing a thirsty Fly, a hungry Cat, a starved Bull-dog, and frost-nipped Crickets—An Account of Madam Fame's Journey to the Den of Madam Discord—An Account of Madam Discord—An Inventory of her Cell—Account of her Excursions—her Pictures and Music—her sudden Flight to Buckingham-House—assumes

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the Shape of Madam Schwellenberg—whispers his Majesty—the Speech to Majesty—Majesty's fine Answer in his Sleep—Discord quits Majesty—takes the Form of Madam Haggerdorn—and goes to the Major's Bedside, and whispers Rebellion to him—Her Speech—The Major sits upright in his Bed—handles his Pig-tail—The Major's most pathetic Curses—his sensible Soliloquy on Wigs—his Attack on Kings in general, and Praise of our most gracious King in particular—The Major strikes a Light—a rich Comparison—visits a Master Cook—Vast Difference between a Battle fought in a Field and in a Newspaper—The Descent of the Cooks to the Kitchen—A great and apt Comparison—The Cooks look about for Day-light with Horror—The Situation of their Souls described—finely illustrated by a great Woman's Apprehensions for her fine diamond Stomacher—Lord Egl---t---n and an old Maid—A most tender and just Apostrophe to the frail Fair-ones of the Town—a Tear dropped on their unhappy Condition—their Part taken by the Poet, and, in a great Measure, vindicated—The Poet's Thunder-bolt launched at a certain great Limb of the Law, by way of Palliation—A short yet most charming Reflection on the female Heart, when in Love—The Poet returns to the Cooks—continues to describe their dread of Day-light, by more apt Comparisons of hungry Authors—General Conflagration—Sir
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William Chambers and the Bishop of Exeter—Some Allusion to his Majesty's Journey to Exeter—Extracts from a Manuscript Poem of a Devonshire Humourist, one John Ploughshare—The Major vainly endeavours to banish his Fears by whistling and humming a Couple of Tunes—The Names of the unsuccessful Tunes—The Major's Choice of them only known to the great Author of Nature.

185

Night, like a widow in her weeds of woe,
Had gravely walk'd for hours our world below:
Hobgoblins, spectres in her train, and cats;
Owls round her hooting, mix'd with shrieking bats,
Like wanton Cupids in th' Idalian grove,
That flick'ring sport around the Queen of Love.
Now like our quality, who darkling rise,
Each star had op'd its fashionable eyes;
Too proud to make appearance, too well bred,
Till Sol, the vulgar wretch, had gone to bed.

His wisdom dead to sublunary things,
In leaden slumber snor'd the best of *****;
In slumber lifeless, with seraphic mien,
Close at his back, too, snor'd his gentle *****:
Unlike the pair of modern days, that weds,
And, in one fortnight, bawls for different beds!

Blest imp! now Morpheus o'er each princess stole,
And clos'd those radiant eyes that vainly roll!
Eyes! love's bright stars! but doom'd in vain to shine;
For, ah! what youth shall say, ‘those orbs are mine:’

186

Then, what are eyes, alas! the brightest eyes,
Forbid to languish on a lover's sighs
The pouting lip, the soft luxuriant breast,
If coldly fated never to be press'd?
Ah, vainly those like dew-clad cherries glow;
And this as vainly vies with Alpine snow!
The breath that gives of Araby the gales,
The voice that sounds enchantment, what avails?
The Juno form, the purple bloom of May,
Gifts of the Graces, all are thrown away!

But, possibly, some German duke may move,
And make a tendre of his heavy love!
His wide dominions—miles, p'rhaps, nine or ten;
His Myrmidonian phalanx—fifty men!
But, lo! his heart, the fount whence honour springs,
Swell'd with the richest blood of ancient kings!
He comes! not for high birth, his own before!
Great duke! he comes to woo our golden ore,
And add (how truly happy Britain's fate!)
Another leech to suck the sanguine state;
To join (composing what a goodly row!)
The place-broker, old Schw--- and Co.

Now Morpheus (in compassion to mankind,
Made, by his magic, deaf, and dumb, and blind)
Amus'd with dreams man's ambulating soul,
To recompense him for the time he stole;
Bade the beau dance, his Delia melt away,
Who box'd his ears so cruel through the day.
Of ancient damsels eas'd the lovesick pains,
Brought back lost charms, and fill'd their laps with swains;
Gave placid cuckoldom a constant dame;
To brainless authors, bread and cheese and fame;
Made driv'ling monarchs schemes of wisdom plan,
And nature's rankest coward kill his man;
Gave to the chap-fall'n courtier wealth and power,
Who felt no favour at the levee-hour,
Though tip-toed, hawk-like, watchful all the while,
To seize the faintest glimpse of royal smile;

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Bade happy aldermen assume new airs,
Be-chain'd with all the splendor of lord may'rs;
And bade them too (without a groat to pay)
Re-gobble all the turtle of the day:
Bade Gl---r think his might could match a mouse,
And Chambers fancy he could build a house;
And Lady Mount, th' antipodes of grace,
Think that she does not frighten with her face.

Now Silence in the country stalk'd the dews,
As if she wore a flannel pair of shoes,
Lone list'ning, as the poets well remark,
To falling mill-streams, and the mastiff's bark;
To loves of wide-mouth'd cats, most mournful tales;
To hoot of owls amid the dusky vales,
To hum of beetles, and the bull-frog's snore,
The spectre's shriek, and ocean's drowsy roar.—
Lull'd was each street of London to repose,
Save where it echo'd to a watchman's nose;
Or where a watchman, with ear-piercing rattle,
Rous'd his brave brothers from each box to battle;
To fall upon the Cynthias of the night,
Sweet nymphs! whose sole profession is delight!
Thus the gaunt wolves the tender lambs pursue,
And hawks, in blood of doves, their beaks imbrue!
Thus on the flies of evening rush the bats,
And mastiffs sally on the am'rous cats!

Still was the palace, save where now and then
The tell-tale feet of love-designing men,
Night-wand'ring lords, soft patting on the floor,
Of maids of honour sought the chamber door;
Obliging door! that, op'ning to the tap,
Admitted lords to take a social nap,
And chase most kindly from each timid maid
The ghosts that frightful haunt the midnight shade:
For very horrid 'tis, we all must own,
For poor defenceless nymphs to lie alone;
Since nights are often doleful, dark, and drear,
And raise in gentle breasts a world of fear.

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Nay, were not lords ordain'd for ladies' charms;
To guard from perils dire, and dread alarms?
Yes! and like lock'd-up gems those charms to keep,
Amidst the spectred solitude of sleep.
How wicked then to fly in Nature's face,
And deal damnation on a kind embrace!
Pardon, ye grave divines, this doctrine strange,
Who think my morals may have caught the mange.
Still was the palace, save where some poor fly,
With thirst just ready to drop down and die,
Buzz'd faint petitions to his Maker's ear,
To show him one small drop of dead small beer;
Save where the cat, for mice, so hungry, watching,
Swore the lean animals were scarce worth catching;
Save where the dog so gaunt, in grumbling tone,
By dreams deluded, mouth'd a mutton bone;
Save where, with throats to sounds of horror strain'd,
Crickets of coughs and rheumatisms complain'd,
Lamenting sore, amid a royal hold,
‘How hard that crickets should be kill'd by cold!’

Now Fame to Discord's dreary mansion flew,
To tell the beldame more than all she knew,
Who, at the Devil's table, for her work,
For ever welcome finds a knife and fork:
Discord, a sleepless hag, who never dies,
With snipe-like nose, and ferret-glowing eyes,
Lean, sallow cheeks, long chin, with beard supply'd,
Poor crackling joints, and wither'd parchment hide,
As if old drums, worn out with martial din,
Had clubb'd their yellow heads to form her skin;
Discord, who, pleas'd a universe to sway,
Is never half so bless'd as in a fray:
Discord, to deeds, indeed, most daring giv'n,
Who bade vile Satan raise a dust in heav'n;
Stirr'd up the sweetest angels to rebel,
And sunk the fairest forms to darkest hell;
Bade by her din, the humblest spirits rise,
Bold to dethrone the Monarch of the Skies;

189

For which they very properly were sent,
Unhappy legions! into banishment;
Doom'd, for such most abominable sinning,
To broil on charcoal, with eternal grinning.

Discord, who whisper'd to the jealous Cain,
‘Go crack thy brother's box that holds his brain;’
Which Cain perform'd, in godliness unstable,
That foe to piety and brother Abel:
Discord, who haunts poor G---'s maudlin dame,
And makes her duke of wisdom cry out ‘Shame!’
Who, after dinner, for her honours screams,
And grasps a British crown in drunken dreams;
Then roars as though (what richly she deserves)
The d*ke had clapp'd a broomstick to her nerves:
Discord, who also often doth profane
The goodly streets and courts of Drury-lane;
Where bawd meets bawd, blaspheming, swearing, drunk,
Pimp knocks down pimp, and punk abuses punk:
Discord, delighting in the wordy war,
The pillar of the senate and the bar:
Discord, who makes a ** delight in ode,
Slight Square of Hanover for Tott'nham Road;
Where, with the taste sublime of Goth and Vandal,
He orders the worst works of heavy Handel;
Encores himself , till all the audience gape,
And suffers not a quaver to escape:
Discord, all eye, all mouth, all ear, all nose,
For ever warring with a world's repose!

When Fame arriv'd, the shaving tale to tell,
Pleas'd was the red-ey'd fury in her cell,

190

Where scorpions crawl'd, where screech'd that noisy fowl,
Known in Great-Britain by the name of owl;
Bats shriek'd, and grillatalpas join'd the sound,
Cats squall'd, pigs whin'd, and adders hiss'd around.

Close to the restless wave her mansion lay,
Receding from the beam of cheerful day:
Hence on black wing the hag was wont to roam,
And join the witches 'mid the stormy gloom;
Howl with delight amid the thunder's roar;
Hang o'er the wrecks that crowd the billowy shore;
See, 'midst each flash, the heads of seamen rise,
And drink with greedy ears their drowning cries.—
Around her dwelling various portraits hung,
Of those whose noisy names in hist'ry rung,
Here, with spread arms, whom grace and fury fill,
Thund'ring damnation, star'd Stentorian Hill:
There, curs'd Sir Joseph Banks, in quest of fame,
At finding fleas and lobsters not the same.
Here, a prime fav'rite, of a sainted band,
Hell in his heart, and torches in his hand;
Lord George by mobs huzza'd, and, what is odd,
Burning poor Papists for the love of God;
Pleas'd as old Nero on each falling dome,
Sublimely fiddling to the flames of Rome!
There, in respect to kings, not over nice,
That revolution-sinner—Doctor Price:
Whose labours, in a most uncourtly style.
Win not, like gentle Burke's, the royal smile;
Gain not from good divines both praise and thanks,
Call'd, by the wicked, ‘Gospel mountebanks,
Mere quack pretenders, from their lofty station
Puffing off idle nostrums of salvation;
Who, where the milk and honey flows, resort,
Like rooks in corn fields, black'ning all the court.’
Here, leading all her bears so savage forth,
Wild rag'd the Amazonian of the north,
With ruin leagu'd, t'attack the Turkish hive,
And leave not half a Mussulman alive:

191

There storm'd a vixen, far and near renown'd
For sweetness, meekness, piety profound;
Her sons abusing (in abuses old),
With all the fury of a German scold!—
These, with some scores, were seen, of equal fame,
Thanks to a lonely taper's livid flame!
The form of Madam Schwellenberg she took,
Her broken English, garb, and sin-like look;
Then sought the palace, and the royal ear,
And whisper'd thus, ‘Mine God, sir, nebber fear—
Oh, please your majesty, you ver ver right:
Shave all de rascal, if but out of spite.
Lord! Lord! how vill a mighty monarch look,
Not able, O mine God! for shave a cook!
Dat like a king, I say, what can't do dat?
Mine God! pray haf more spirit dan a cat.
Ser, in mine court, de prince be great as king—
He scorn to ax one word about a ting.
Mine God! de cook muss nebber dare make groan,
Nor dare to tell a prince der soul der own:
'Tis de dam Englis only, dat can say,
“Boh! fig for king! by God I'll haf my way.”

‘I haf see court enough—a prince and dook,
But nebber wish on sush as dis to look:
I say ver often to myself—Goode God!
I nebber vish a crown mine head for load!
I do not vish myself more greater efils—
A king of Englis be a king of defils:
To punishment de lousy rascal bring,
And show dem all vat 'tis for be a king.
America haf cover us vid shame;
Jack Wilkes, too, be a dam, dam uglish name;
And sal de paltry cook be conqueror too?—
No, God forbid! as dat vill nebber do.
De hair muss fall before your royal eye,
'Tis someting, fags! to triumph 'pon poor fly.’—
Pleas'd with her voice, the king of nations smil'd,
For pow'r with monarchs is a fav'rite child:—

192

‘What! what! not shave 'em, shave 'em, shave 'em, shave 'em?
Not all the world, not all the world shall save 'em.
I'll sheer 'em, sheer 'em, as I sheer my sheep.’—
Thus spoke the mighty monarch in his sleep:
Which proves that kings in sleep a speech may make,
Equal to what they utter broad awake.

Charm'd with the mischief full on fancy's view,
Quick to the major's room the Fury flew;
Put off the form of Schwellenberg, and took
Of Madam Haggerdorn the milder look:
A woman, in whose soul no guile is seen,
The mistress of the robes to our good queen;
A queen, who really has not got her peer;
A queen, to this our kingdom, wondrous dear;
Which shows, however folks are apt to sport,
That all the virtues may be found at court.—
Now, in the major's ear the beldame said,
‘Yan Dixon—Yan, you must not, man, be fraid.
I like mush your peteeshon to de king,
Though George will swear 'tis dam, dam saucy ting;
And swear, dat as his soul is to be save,
Dat ebbry von of you sal all be shave:
Yan Dixon, rader your dear life lay down,
Dan be de laugh (mine Gote) of all de town.
De ver, ver littel boy an girl you meet,
Vill point and laugh and hoot you trow de street.
De same (mine Gote) vill chimney-sweep behave,
And cry, “Dere go de blockhead dat vas shave:”
“Dere go von poor shave fellow!” cry de trull,
“Because he had de louse upon his skull.”
I know he say, dat you sal lose your lock,
Before to morrow mornin twalfe o'clock.
I tink dere may be battle—nebber mind,
I hope dat Godamighty will be kind.
What, if de king make noise about de house,
For noting but his dam confounded louse;
He be but von, you know; an den for you,
Mine Gote! Yan Dixon, you is fifty-two:

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Tink, Yan, how George vas frighten by de mob,
When Lord George Gordon made dat burnin job.
Mine Gote! Yan, mind me, rader lose dy place,
Dan suffer such dam nasty dam disgrace.
I tell you true, indeed, ver true, dear Yan,
His majesty be ver goot sort of man;
But ver ver like indeed as oder men,
Dat is, a leetel stubborn now an den.—
Tink, Yan, of dat ver ugly ting, a wig,
For pot-boy and de pot-girl run der rig!
Boh! filty ting, enough de deffil for scare;
An made perhap of dismal dead man's hair!
I sal not wonders if, dy soul for shock,
A ghost come seize upon der stolen lock.
No, fags! nor vonders if dey come an pull
De vig vid mush, mush fury from dy scull.
Pon som poor strumpet head perhap dat grow'd,
Dat die of dam dissorder, nasty toad!’—
Thus saying, lo! the Fury made retreat,
And left the lord of saucepans in a sweat.
Just like King Richard in his tent, John rear'd,
And verily a man of woes appear'd.
Now handling his small pig-tail, ‘Now you're here,’
Exclaim'd the Major, ‘but not long, I fear:
Perhaps some good may follow this same dream,
And resolution mar this shaving scheme.
Curs'd be the louse that so much mischief bred,
And yields to barbers' boys, the harmless head:
Curs'd be the razor-maker, curs'd the prig
Who thought upon that greasy thing—a wig.
Sure, 'twas some mangy beast, some scabby rogue,
Who brought a thing so filthy into vogue!
Had Nature meant the scare-crow to be worn,
Infants with wigs had certainly been born.—
But, lo! with little hair, and that uncurl'd,
But not with wigs, they come into the world!
What shame, that sheep, that horses, cows, and bulls,
Should club their tails, to furnish Christian sculls!
But what a sacrilegious shame, the dead
Can't keep, poor souls, their locks upon their head!

194

What shame the spectres, in the midnight air,
Should wander, screaming for their plunder'd hair!
Curs'd be the shaving plan, I say again,
Although the bantling of a royal brain!’
Thus curs'd the Major to Night's list'ning ear,
Enough to turn a Christian pale to hear!
Thus, heedless of hereafter, for a pin
Will men and women run their souls in sin!
Now paus'd the Major, with a thoughtful air;
And now soliloquied with solemn stare:—
‘Drunk with dominion, gorg'd with vicious thoughts,
With folly teeming, doz'd by flattery's draughts,
Taught to admire their very maudlin dreams,
And think their brains' dull mudpools, Wisdom's streams,—
Too many a monarch lives; but, lo! not ours!
A king, who Wisdom's very self devours;
Snaps at arts, sciences, where'er they rise,
With all the fire of boys at butterflies.—
Such cannot, surely own little heart;
Therefore our locks and we may never part.’
Now, from a stool, a tinder-box he took,
And fiercely with the stone the steel he struck;
And, after many unsuccessful shocks,
The sparks inflam'd the tinder in the box;
Which, by a match which John did sagely handle,
Gave sudden lustre to a farthing candle.
Thus, if small things with great we may compare,
We see hard pedagogues, with furious air,
Strike with the fist, and often with a stick,
Light through a scholar's scull, ten inches thick.

Now, full illuminated, Dixon stole,
Where lay a master-cook within his hole:
From whence, to all th' inferior cooks they went,
Inclin'd to opposition's big intent;
But, not so fierce, alas! for opposition,
As in the threat'ning, bullying petition;
For men (it is reported) dash and vapour
Less on the field of battle, than on paper.

195

Thus, in the hist'ry of each dire campaign,
More carnage loads the newspaper than plain.
And now the cooks and scullions left each nest;
And now, behold, they one and all were drest.

Lo! sullen to the kitchen mov'd the throng,
Gloom on each eye, and silence on each tongue:
How much like crape-clad mourners round a bier!
But, ah! impress'd with sorrow more sincere;
For oft, at tombs, with joy the bosom burns—
There, 'tis the sable back alone that mourns.
Now making, with a few dry chips, a fire,
They sullen sat, their grief commix'd with ire;
Sad ruminating all around the flame,
Like Harry and his band, of deathless name,
Near Agincourt, expectant of the day
Big with the horrors of a bloody fray;
A fray that threaten'd his poor little band,
To sweep it, just like spiders, to that land
Terra incognita yclep'd, which stretches
Afar!—of which, imperfect are our sketches;
Since all who have survey'd this distant bourn,
So welcom'd, were not suffer'd to return.—
Thus did the cooks expect the fatal morn,
When, sheep-like, ev'ry head was to be shorn.

Now to the whit'ning east they cast their sight,
And wish'd, but vainly, an eternal night:
Not with less pleasure stares upon the day,
The wretch condemn'd hard nature's debt to pay;
Condemn'd ere noon to act a deed abhorr'd;
To stretch, for justice' sake, the fatal cord:
Not with less pleasure shrunk (unknown to shame),
A meat, drink, snuff, and diamond-loving dame,
When told, ‘That if poor Hastings went to pot,
Away went pearls, and jewels, and what not,
Torn from the stomacher so fine, yet foul,
Which Av'rice thirsted for, and Rapine stole:’
Not with less pleasure, in the vale of life,
Poor Egl*n*t*n beheld a youthful wife,

196

(Forc'd, on a bed of ice, sweet flow'r, to bloom;
Ah! forc'd to shine, a sun-beam, on a tomb)
That blooming youthful wife, inclin'd to stray
With Ham*lton, all in a billing way;
Just like two turtles, or a pair of lambs,
Or ewes so playful with the frisky rams:

Not with less glee an old and hopeless maid,
Surveys the sun ascending from the shade;
A sun, that gives a younger sister's charms,
So hated, to a bridegroom's happy arms:
Not with less joy, that raging chaste old maid
Sees the frail fair-ones in the Cyprian trade
Escape the whip and gaol, and hemp beside,
By means of gentle Mister Justice Hyde.
Sweet wrecks of beauty! though, with aspic eye,
And glance disdainful, Prudery pass them by,
With mincing step, and squinting cautious dread,
As though their looks alone contagion shed.—
I view each pallid wretch with grief sincere,
And call on Pity for her tend'rest tear;
See, on their cheeks, the blush of virtue burn;
Hear from their souls, the sigh of ruin mourn;
View, veil'd in horror's gloom, their swimming eyes,
Beaming with hopeless wishes to the skies,
Like the pale Moon's dim solitary form,
Wrapp'd in the darkness of the midnight storm.
Too oft, by Treach'ry's winning smile betray'd,
Too fondly trusting, falls the simple maid!
Too many a Th---l---e walks the world of woe,
To foul of Innocence the sacred snow!
To love, yet nurse the thought of villain art,
How hard a lesson for the partial heart!
Too hard a lesson for the female soul,
Where Love no partner owns, and scorns control.

Not with less pleasure doth a poet look
On cruel criticism, which damns his book,
Or recommends it to that peaceful shore
Where books and bards are never heard of more,

197

Than look'd each man, with lengthen'd boding beard,
On that sad morn, which doom'd them to be shear'd:
Not with less pleasure, likewise, let me say,
A hungry author sees his dying play;
Child of his dotage, who surveys its fall,
Just as mankind shall view the tumbling ball;
When sun, moon, stars, and all the distant spheres,
Burst in one general wreck about their ears.
Not with less pleasure did Sir William's eye
See Somerset's bold wing desert its sky;
A fall, at which the nation's purse exclaims,
That thund'ring crush'd the back of roaring Thames:
Not with less pleasure did Sir William's ear,
A second crash of this fam'd fabric hear;
When poor Sir Joshua, with his painting band,
Swore the dread day of judgment just at hand.
Not with less glee, tenacious of his dross,
Ross started—Reader! not the Man of Ross—

198

When majesty, to rest his royal head,
Ask'd of the church's mitred son a bed,—
Poor man! who proving, like his sovereign, poor,
Begg'd him to knock at good Dean Buller's door;
Buller, who took his wand'ring master in,
And stuff'd with corn and oil his scrip and skin;
For which (on gratitude so wont to dote)
The monarch gave a tumbler—worth a groat!

199

O glorious act! an act, how seldom seen!
O what a day of gladness for the Dean!
A gift so rare, so noble, so sublime,
Will stupefy the sons of distant time.
This, let the Buller family record;
This little treasure let the Bullers hoard;

200

Yet show, exulting, upon gala days,
To bid some favour'd guest admire and praise.

Now did the major hum a tune so sad!
Chromatic—in the robes of sorrow clad:
But, lo! the ballad could not fear control,
Nor exorcise the barbers from his soul:
And now his lifted eyes the ceiling sought;
And now he whistled—not for want of thought.
A mournful air the whistling major chose:
Still on his rolling eye the razors rose.
From grave to sprightly now he chang'd—a jig—
Still o'er his haunted fancy wav'd the wig;
Still saw his eye alarm'd, the scratch abhorr'd,
Like wild Macbeth's, the visionary sword.—
Thus, from what kings, alas! may fancy fun,
His loving subjects may be glad to run:
Thus, when St. Swithin from his fountain pours;
St. Swithin, tutelary saint of show'rs;
Beaux skip, belles scamper, fly the cocks and hens,
With drooping plumage, to the shelt'ring pens;
While, lo! the waddling ducks te deum utter,
Flap their glad wings, and gabble through the gutter.

Sing, Muse! or, lo! our canto not complete,
What air he humm'd, and whistled all so sweet.
Homer, of ev'ry thing minutely speaks,
From Heaven's ambrosia, to a camp's beef-steaks:
Then let us, Muse, adopt a march sublime,
And try to rival Homer with our rhime;

201

Who, had a nit, in Juno's tresses bred,
Dropp'd on divine Minerva's wiser head;
Or Cook-like flea, exploring some new track,
Hopp'd from the clouds to Agamemnon's back;
The bard had sung the fall in verse divine,
And critics heard the sound along the line.
Jove call'd his Juno only saucy bitch;
The poet thought it would his song enrich:
Jove, too, just threaten'd, with some birchen rods,
To whip her publicly before the gods;
The bard (though but a flogging bout at most)
Deem'd it, indeed, too sacred to be lost:
Jove call'd his daughter only bitch and fool
(Poor Pallas, treated like a girl at school),
Threaten'd to ham-string her six fav'rite nags,
And tear her bran new phaëton to rags;
The bard, who never wrote an idle word,
Bade his bold verse, the god's bold speech record:
And had the Thund'rer but broke wind, the song
Had, imitative, borne the blast along.—
Then be it known to all the world around,
To folks above, and people underground,
To fish and fowl, and every creeping thing—
Lillibullero, and God save the king,
Were actually the very airs he chose!
But wherefore—God Almighty only knows!

Gallini's Rooms are in this square, in which is performed the celebrated professional concert.

This was a most ludicrous circumstance that happened not long since, when his ***** and the orchestra were left to themselves and God save the king.

This gentleman still retains the place of comptroller of the board of works, to the kingdom's surprise; but demerit in building, as well as in painting, is a sufficient recommendation to a certain species of patrons, particularly if the professors are despised by the people at large. It is the money of this nation, that is sought for, not the merit. The circumstance of being a foreigner too (for this same Sir William Chambers is a Swede), carries with it another strong claim to favouritism!

The present Bishop of Exeter, who, when his majesty visited that ancient city, lately most handsomely excused himself the honour of entertaining his royal master, by billeting him upon Dean Buller. The following lines, extracted from a manuscript performance of one John Ploughshare, called the Royal Progress, we think, will elucidate this part of our epic, and not be unacceptable to our readers.

‘In comm'd the king at laste to town
With doust and zweat az nutmeg brown,
The hosses all in smoke;
Huzzaing, trumpeting, and ringing,
Red colours vleeing, roaring, dringing,
Zo mad zeem'd all the voke.

Wiping his zweaty jaws and poll,
All over douste we spied 'Squire Rolle,
Close by the king's coach trattin;
Now shoving in the coach his head,
Meaning (we thoft) it might be zed,
“'Squire Rolle and George be chattin.”

Now went the Aldermen and May'r,
Zome with cut wigs, and zome with hair,
The royal voke to ken;
When Measter May'r, upon my word,
Pok'd to the king a gert long sword,
Which he pok'd back agen.

Now thoose that round his worship stood,
Declar'd it clumsily was dood;
Yet Squirt, the people zay,
Brandish'd a gert hoss glyster-pipe,
To make un in his lesson ripe,
That took up half a day.

Now down droo Vore-street did they com,
Zum hallowin, and screeching zum:
Now trudg'd they to the dean's;
Becaze the bishop zent mun word,
“A could not meat and drink avord,
A had not got the means.”

A zed, that, ‘az vor he, poor man,
A had not got a pot or pan,
Nor spoon, nor knive, nor vork;
That he was weak, and ould, and squeal,
And zeldom made a hearty meal,
And zeldom drade a cork.’

Indeed, a is a moderate man,
And zo be all the clargy clan,
That with un come to chatter;
Who, when they're ax'd to a glass of wine,
To one the wother they tip the sign,
And beg my lord's fine water.

Then az vor rooms—why, there agen
‘A could not lodge a cock, nor hen,
They were zo small,’ a zed;
And, az vor beds, they wudn't do,
In number about one or two,
Vor self and Joan the maid.

In voolish things, a wudn't be cort,
'Twas stoopid to treat vokes for nort:—
No; twazn't heese desire.
Prefarment, too, waz to an eend;
The king would never more vor'n zend,
To lift un one peg higher.

And yet vokes zay's a man o'sense,
Honest and good—but hoardth his pence;
Can't peart with drink nor met.
An then why vore? the peepel rail:—
To greaze a vat ould pig in the tail—
Ould Weymouth o'Long Leat.

Well, to the dean's, bounce in they went,
And all the day in munchin spent,
And guzlin, too, no doubt;
And, while the gentry drink'd within,
The mob, with brandy, ale, and gin,
Got roaring drunk without.’

A small wig, or rather an apology for a wig, so called, and generally worn by our most amiable and august monarch.