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

A King, near Pimlico, with nose and state,
Did very much a neighbouring brick-kiln hate,
Because the kiln did vomit nasty smoke;
Which smoke—I can't say very nicely bred—
Did very often take it in its head
To blacken the great house, and try the k*** to choke.

His sacred majesty would, sputt'ring, say,
Upon a windy day,
I'll make the rascal and his brick-kiln hop—
P*x take the smoke—the sulphur!—zounds!—
It forces down my throat by pounds—
My belly is a downright blacksmith's shop.’

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One day,—he was so pester'd by a cloud—
He could not bear it, and thus bawl'd aloud:
‘Go,’ roar'd his m*****y unto a page,
Work'd, like a lion, to a dev'lish rage,
‘Go, tell the rascal who the brick-kiln owns,
That if he dares to burn another brick,
Black all my house like hell, and make me sick,
I'll tear his kiln to rags, and break his bones.’

Off Billy Ramus sat, his errand told:
On which the brickmaker—a little bold,
Exclaim'd, ‘He break my bones, good master page,
He say my kiln shan't burn another brick,
Because it blacks his house and makes him sick!
Billy, go, give my love to master's rage,
And say, more bricks I am resolv'd to burn;
And if the smoke his worship's stomach turn,
Tell him to stop his mouth and snout—
Nay more, good page—his m*****y shall find
I'll always take th' advantage of the wind,
And, dam'me, try to smoke him out.’

This was a shameful message to a k***,
From a poor ragged rogue that dealt in mud;
Yet, though so impudent a thing,
The fellow's rhet'ric could not be withstood.

Stiff as against poor Hastings, Edmund Burke,
This brickmaker went tooth and nail to work,
And form'd a true Vesuvius on the eye:
The smoke in pitchy volumes roll'd along,
Rush'd thro' the royal dome with sulphur strong,
And, thick ascending, darken'd all the sky.

To give the smoke a nastier stink,
Indignant reader, what dost think?
The fellow scrap'd the filthiest stuff together,
Old wigs, old hats, old woollen caps, old rugs,
Replete with many a colony of bugs,
Old shoes and boots, and all the tribe of leather.

Thus did the cloud of stink and darkness shade
The building for the Lord's anointed made,

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And blacken'd it like palls that grace a burying:
Thus was this man of mud and straw employ'd,
And at the thought so wicked, overjoy'd,
Of smoking God's vicegerent like a herring;

Of serving him as we do parts of swine,
Thought, with green peas, a dish extremely fine;
But, lo! this baneful rogue of brick
Fell, for his sov'reign, fortunately sick,
And, ere the wretch could glut his spleen and pride,
By turning monarchs into bacon—died.

The modern bard, quoth Tom, sublimely sings
Of sharp and prudent œconomic kings,
Who rams, and ewes, and lambs, and bullocks feed,
And pigs of every sort of breed:

Of kings who pride themselves on fruitful sows;
Who sell skim milk, and keep a guard so stout
To drive the geese, the thievish rascals, out,
That ev'ry morning us'd to suck the cows :—

Of kings who cabbages and carrots plant
For such as wholesome vegetables want;—
Who feed, too, poultry for the people's sake,
Then send it through the villages in carts,
To cheer (how wondrous kind!) the hungry hearts
Of such as only pay for what they take.

The poet now, quoth Tom's rare lucubration,
Singeth commercial treaties—commutation—

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Taxes on paint, pomatum, milk of roses,
Olympian dew, gloves, sticking plaster, hats,
Quack medicines for sick Christians, and sound rats,
And all that charm our eyes, or mouths, or noses.

The modern bard, says Tom, sublimely sings
Of virtuous, gracious, good, uxorious kings,
Who love their wives so constant from their heart;—
Who down at Windsor daily go a-shopping—
Their heads so lovely into houses popping,
And doing wonders in the hagling art.

And why, in God's name, should not queens and kings
Purchase a comb, or corkscrew, lace for cloaks,
Edging for caps, or tape for apron-strings,
Or pins, or bobbin, cheap as other folks?

Reader! to make thine eyes with wonder stare,
I tell thee farthings claim the royal care!
Farthings are helpless-children of a guinea:
If not well watch'd they travel to their cost!
For, lo! each copper-visag'd little ninny
Is very apt to stray, and to be lost.
Extravagance I never dar'd defend—
The greatest kings should save a candle-end:

Since 'tis an axiom sure, the more folks save,
The more, indisputably, they must have,
Crown'd heads, of saving should appear examples;
And Britain really boasts two pretty samples!

The modern poet sings, quoth Tom again,
Of sweet excisemen, an obliging train;
Who, like our guardian-angels, watch our houses,
And add another civil obligation
That addeth greatly to our reputation—
Hug, in our absences, our loving spouses.

Reader! when tir'd, I'm fond of taking breath:
Now, as thou dost admire the true sublime,
And, consequently, my immortal rhime,
'Tis clear thou never canst desire my death.

320

Swans, in their songs, most musically die;—
If that's the case then, reader, so might I.
Let me, then, join thy wishes—stay my rapture,
And nurse my lungs to sing a second chapter.

Is it possible for this story to be true? We would rather give it as apocryphal.

Mr. Warton says in his Ode, ‘Who plant the civic bay;’ but he assuredly meant cabbages and carrots:—the fact proves it.

IN CONTINUATION.

‘Grant me an honest fame, or grant me none,’
Says Pope (I don't know where), a little liar;
Who, if he prais'd a man, 'twas in a tone
That made his praise like bunches of sweetbriar,
Which, while a pleasing fragrance it bestows,
Pops out a pretty prickle on your nose.
Were some folks to exclaim, who fill a throne,
‘Grant me an honest fame, or grant me none;’
Such princes were upon the forlorn hope,—
Soon, very soon, to reputation dead;
Their idle laureats, faith, might shut up shop,
And bid their lofty genius go to bed.
Muse, this is all well said; but, not t'offend ye,
I beg you will not cultivate digression—
Plead not the poet's quidlibet audenti;
For surely there are limits to th' expression:
Then cease to wanton thus in episode,
And tell the world of Mr. Warton's Ode.
The modern poet, Laureat Thomas says,
To Botany's grand island tunes his lays,
Fix'd for the swains and damsels of St. Giles,
Whose knowledge in the hocus-pocus art
Bids them from Britain somewhat sudden start,
To teach to southern climes their ministerial wiles:

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Improve the wisdom of the commonweal,
And teach the simple natives how to steal:
The picklock sciences, so dark, explain;
And to ingenious murder turn each brain.
Quoth Tom again—the modern poet sings
Of sweet, good-natur'd inoffensive kings;
Who, by a miracle, escap'd with life—
Escap'd a damsel's most tremendous knife;
A knife that had been taught, by toil and art,
To pierce the bowels of a pie or tart.
Thus, having giv'n a full display
Of what our laureat says, or meant to say;
I'll beg of Thomas to instruct my ears,
Why, in his verses, he should call
The knights who grac'd the high-arch'd hall,
A set of bears ?

Vide the word Savage, in the laureat's Ode for the New Year.

Why the bold steel-clad knights of elder days
Are not entitled to a little praise,
Who for God's cause did palace, house, and hut sell;
As well as monarchs of the present date,
Whose dear religion, of which poets prate,
Might lodge, without much squeezing, in a nutshell?
‘What king hath small religion?’ thou repliest—
‘If G***** the Th*** thou meanest—bard, thou liest.’
Hold, Thomas—not so furious—I know things
That add not to the piety of ------.
I've seen a K. at chapel I declare,
Yawn, gape, laugh, in the middle of a pray'r—
When inward his sad optics ought to roll,
To view the dark condition of his soul;
Catch up an opera-glass, with curious eye,
Forgetting God, some stranger's phiz to spy,

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As though desirous to observe, if Heav'n
Had Christian features to the visage giv'n;
Then turn (for kind communication, keen)
And tell some new-found wonders to the queen.
Thus have these eyes beheld a cock so stately
(Indeed these lyric eyes beheld one lately),
Lab'ring upon a dunghill with each knuckle:
When after many a peck, and scratch, and scrub,
This hunter did unkennel a poor grub,
On which the fellow did so strut and chuckle;
He peck'd and squinted—peck'd and kenn'd agen,
Hallooing lustily to Madam Hen;
To whom, with airs of triumph, he look'd round,
And told what noble treasure he had found.
‘Ah! Peter, Peter,’ Laureat Thomas cries,
‘Thou hast no fear of kings before thy eyes;
Great—little—all with thee are equal jokes,
And mighty monarchs merely common folks.
Ah wicked, wicked, wicked Peter, know—’
Know what? ‘That monarchs are not merely show;
Souls they possess, and on a glorious scale:’
To this I answer, Thomas, with a tale.
A duke of Burgundy (I know not which)
Thus on a certain time address'd a poet:—
‘I'm much afraid of that same scribbling itch—
You've wit—but pray be cautious how you show it;
Say nothing in your rhimes about a king—
If praise, 'tis lies—if blame, a dangerous thing.’
That is, the duke believ'd the king, uncivil,
Might kick the saucy poet to the devil.
T. W.
Peter, there's odds 'twixt staring and stark mad—

P. P.
Who dares deny it?—So there is, eg ad!

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T. W.
Thou thinkst no prince of common sense possest—

P. P.

Thomas, thou art mistaken, I protest—
On Stanislaus the muse could pour her strain,
Who, dying, sunk a sun upon Lorraine:
Too like the parted sun, with glory crown'd—
He fill'd with blushes deep th' horizon round.
Fred'rick the Great, who died the other day,
Had for himself, indeed, a deal to say:
We must not touch upon that king's belief—
Because I fear he seldom said his pray'rs—
Nor dare we say the hero was no thief,
Because he plunder'd ev'ry body's wares.
I'm told the emperor is vastly wise—
And hope that Madam Fame hath told no lies:
Yet, in his disputations with the Dutch,
The monarch's oratory was not much:
Full many a trope from bayonet and drum
He threaten'd—but, behold! 'twas all a hum.

Wise are our gracious q****'s superb relations,
The pride and envy of the German nations—
People of fashion, worship, wealth, and state—
Lo! what demand for them, in heav'n, of late!

Lo! with his knapsack, ev'n just now departed,
As fine a soldier, faith, as ever started—
Whom death did almost dread to lay his claws on—
Old captain what's his name?—Saxehilberghausen ;
For whom (with zeal, for folks of worship, burning)
We once again are black'ned up by mourning;
To show by glove, cloth, ribband, crape, and fan,
A peck of trouble for th' old gentleman.

324

Ah me! what dozens, dozens, dozens,
Our q**** hath got of uncles, aunts, and cousins!
Egad, if thus those folks continue dying,
Each Briton, doom'd to dismal black,
Must always bear a hearse-like back,
And, like Heraclitus, be always crying.

Great is the northern empress, I confess!
Much, in her humour, like our good Queen Bess;
Who keeps her fair court dames from getting drunk ;
And all so temperate herself, folks say,
She scarcely drinks a dozen drams a day;
And, in love matters, is a queen of spunk.

Yet like I not such woman for a wife—
Such heroines, in a matrimonial strife,
Might hammer from one's tender head hard notes:
I own my delicacy is so great,
I cannot, in dispute, with rapture, meet
Women who look like men in petticoats.

Oft in a learn'd dispute upon a cap,
By way of answer one might have a slap—
P'rhaps on a simple petticoat or gown—
Nay! possibly on madam's being kiss'd!
And really I would rather be knock'd down
By weight of argument, than weight of fist.

I like not dames whose conversation runs
On battles, sieges, mortars, and great guns—
The milder beauties win my soften'd soul,
Who look for fashions with desiring eyes:
Pleas'd when on têtes the conversations roll,
Cork rumps, and merry thoughts, and lovers' sighs.

Love! when I marry, give me not an ox—
I hate a woman, like a sentry-box;

325

Nor can I deem that dame a charming creature
Whose hard face holds an oath in ev'ry feature.

In woman—angel sweetness let me see—
No galloping horse-godmothers for me.
I own I cannot brook such manly belles
As Mademoiselle d'Eons, and Hannah Snells:
Yet men there are, (how strange are Love's decrees!)
Whose palates ev'n jack-gentlewomen please.

How diff'rent, Cynthia, from thy form so fair,
That triumph in a love-inspiring air;
Superior beaming ev'n where thousands shine—
Thy form!—where all the tender graces play,
And, blushing, seem in ev'ry smile to say,
‘Behold we boast an origin divine!’

See too the Queen of France—a gem I ween!
With rev'rence let me hail that charming queen,
Bliss to her king, and lustre to her race;
Though Venus gave of beauty half her store,
And all the graces bid a world adore—
Her smallest beauties are the charms of face.

T. W.
Heav'ns! why abroad for virtues must you roam?

P. P.
Because I cannot find them, Tom, at home.

Great uncle to our most gracious Q. He died in the emperor's service.

At an assembly at Petersburgh, some years since, which was honoured with the presence of the empress, one of the rules was, that no lady should come drunk into the room.

I beg your pardon—yes—the Prince of Wales
(Whose actions smile contempt on scandal's tales)
Ranks in the muse's favour high—
I wish some folks, that I could name with ease,
Blest with his head—his heart—his pow'rs to please—
Then Pity's soul would cease from many a sigh!
The crouching courtiers, that surround a throne,
And learn to speak and grin from one alone,

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Who watch, like dancing dogs, their master's nod—
Are ready now, if horsewhipp'd from their places,
At Carlton House to show their supple faces,
And call the prince they vilify a God.
T. W.
Thinkst thou not Cæsar doth the arts possess?

P. P.
Arts in abundance!—Yes, Tom—yes, Tom—yes!

T. W.
Thinkst thou not Cæsar would each joy forego,
To make his children happy?

P. P.
No, Tom—no,

T. W.
What! not one bag, to bless a child, bestow?—

P. P.

Heav'n help thy folly!—no, Tom—no, Tom—no!
The sordid souls that avarice enslaves,
Would gladly grasp their guineas in their graves:
Like that old Greek—a miserable cur,
Who made himself his own executor.

A cat is with her kittens much delighted;
She licks so lovingly their mouths and chins:
At ev'ry danger, lord! how puss is frighted—
She curls her back, and swells her tail, and grins,
Rolls her wild eyes, and claws the backs of curs
Who smell too curious to her children's furs.

This happens whilst her cats are young indeed;
But when grown up, alas! how chang'd their luck!
No more she plays, at bo-peep with her breed,
Lies down and, mewing, bids them come and suck:

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No more she sports and pats them, frisks and purs:
Plays with their twinkling tails, and licks their furs;
But when they beg her blessing and embraces,
Spits, like a dirty vixen, in their faces.

Nay, after making the poor lambkins fly,
She watches the dear babes with squinting eye;
And if she spies them with a bit of meat,
Springs on their property, and steals their treat.—

No more a tender love she seems to feel;—
The dev'l for her may eat 'em at a meal—
With all her soul;—the jade, so wondrous saving,
Cries, ‘Off! you now are at your own beard-shaving.’

So—to some k******s this evil doth belong;—
Th' intelligence is good, I make no doubt;
Who really love their offspring when they're young,
But lose that fond affection when they're stout;
Far off they send them—nor a sixpence give:
I wonder, Thomas, where such m******hs live!—

Should such a m******h, Thomas, cross thy way,
And for thy flatt'ry offer butts of sack;
Say plainly that he would disgrace thy lay;
And turning on him thy poetic back,
Bid, like a porcupine, thine anger bristle;
Nor damn thy precious soul to wet thy whistle.

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CONCLUSION.

Think not, friend Tom, I envy thee thy rhime,
By numbers, I assure you, deem'd sublime;
Or that thy laureat's place my spleen provokes:
The king (good man!) and I should never quarrel,
Ev'n though his royal wisdom gave the laurel
To Mr. Tom-a-Stiles, or John-a-Nokes.

Old fashion'd, as if tutor'd in the ark,
I never sigh'd for glory's high degrees:
This very instant should our Grand Monarque
Say, ‘Peter, be my laureat, if you please;’

‘No, please your majesty,’ should be my answer,
With sweetest diffidence and modest grace:
‘The office suits a more ingenious man, sir;
In God's name, therefore, let him have the place:
Unlike the poets, 'tis my vast affliction
To be a miserable hand at fiction.

But, sir, I'll find some lyric undertaker,
Acrostic, rebus, or conundrum-maker,
Who oft hath rode on Pegasus so fiery,
And won the sweepstakes in the Ladies Diary;
Such, Sire, in poetry shall hitch your name,
And do sufficient justice to your fame.’

A Mr. Scott.