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

Is not this pretty, sir? can aught be sweeter?
Instead of that vile appellation, devil,
So blackguard, so unfriendly, and uncivil,
Should not I be baptiz'd the gentle Peter?

Great is the buz about the court,
As at th' Exchange, where Jews, Turks, Christians meet,
Or Smithfield fair, where beasts of ev'ry sort,
Pigs, sheep, men, bullocks, all so friendly greet.

Busy indeed is many a sly court leech;
Afraid to trust each other with a speech—
In hems, and hahs, and half words, hinting:
Some whisp'ring, list'ning, tip-toe walking, squinting
For lo, so warily each courtier speaks,
They seem to talk with halters round their necks.

Some praise the king for nobleness of spirit,
For ever studying how to find out merit;
Whilst from its box their heart doth slily peep,
And ask the tongue with marv'ling eyes,

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How it can dare to tell a heap
Of such unconscionable, bare-fac'd lies?

‘How are the mighty fall'n!’ the people cry—
Meaning me—
‘Another hog of Epicurus' stye;
This vile apostate bends to Baal the knee;
Lo, for a little meat and guzzle,
This sneaking cur, too, takes the muzzle.

In lyric scandal soon will be a chasm—
He wrote for bribes, 'tis plain, and now he has 'em.
This mighty war-horse will be soon in hand,
By means of meat, the price of venal notes,
Calm as a hackney coach-horse on his stand,
Tossing about his nose-bag and his oats.

Whatever he hath said he dares unsay,
In native impudence so rich—
Explain the plainest things away,
And call his muse a forward b*****;
Treat fire of friendly promises as smoke,
And laugh at truth and honour as a joke.’
Such, sir, is your good people's howl,
As thick as small birds pestering a poor owl.

In vain I tell the world around,
That I have not a pension found;
Which speech of simple truth the mob enrages;
‘Peter this is an arrant lie—
The fact is clear, too clear,’ they cry—
‘Thou hast already touch'd a quarter's wages.

Varlet, it always was thy vile intention—
Thou hast, thou hast, thou liar! got a pension.’
Still, to support my innocence, I've said,
Most sinfully, I own—‘I han't, by G***:’
Yet, had I sworn my eyes out of my head,
They never had believ'd—How vastly odd!

The morning and the evening papers,
Struck by the sound, are in the vapours,

415

And mourn and droop, to think I'm dead—
Stunn'd by the unexpected news,
The Magazines and the Reviews
For grief can scarcely lift the head.

‘Nothing but poor mechanic stuff,’ they cry,
‘Shall now be quoted for the public eye;
Nothing original in song—
No novelty of images and thought
Before our fair Tribunal shall be brought!
But trifling transpositions of our tongue:

Nought but a solemn pomp of words,
Bearing a lifeless thought, shall readers meet—
The picture of a funeral that affords;
So solemn marching through the staring street;

Where flags, and horse, and foot, a sorrow ape,
With all the dread dismality of crape,
Near the poor corpse—perhaps a puny brat,
Or dry old maid, as meagre as a cat.’

No, sir! you never offered me a pension;
But then I guess it is your kind intention—
Yes, sir, you mean a small douceur to proffer;
But give me leave, sir, to decline the offer.

I'm much oblig'd t'ye, sir, for your good will;
But oratorios have half undone ye:
'Tis whisper'd, too, that thieves have robb'd the till
Which kept your milk and butter money.

So much with saving wisdom are you taken,
Drury and Covent-Garden seem forsaken—

416

Since cost attendeth those theatric borders,
Content you go to Richmond House with orders.

Form'd to delight all eyes, all hearts engage,
When lately the sweet Princess came of age,
Train oil instead of wax was bid t'illume
The goodly company and dancing-room!
This never had been done, I'm very sure,
Had not you been, some way or other, poor.

You now want guineas to buy live stock, sir,
To graze your Windsor hill and vale;
And farmers will not let their cattle stir,
Until the money's down upon the nail.

I'm told your sheep have dy'd by dogs and bitches,
And that your fowls have suffer'd by the fitchews;
And that your man-traps, guards of goose and duck,
And cocks and hens, have had but so-so luck.
Scarce fifty rogues, in chase of fowls and eggs,
Have in those loving engines left their legs.

The bulse, sir, on a visit to the Tow'r,
Howe'er the royal visage may look sour,
Howe'er an object of a deep devotion,
Must cross once more the Eastern Ocean!

Indeed I hope the di'monds will be off,
Or scandal on us rolls in floods—
Some Nabob may be vile enough
To bring an action for stol'n goods—
An action, to speak lawyer-like, of trover;
And Heav'n forbid it should come over!

For money matters, I am sure,
The Abbey music was put off;

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Because the royal purse is poor,
Plagu'd with a dry consumptive cough;
Yet in full health again that purse may riot,
By God's grace, and a skim-milk diet.

Close as a vice behold the nation's fist!
Vain will be mouths made up for Civil List!
And humble pray'rs, so very stale,
Will all be call'd an old wife's tale.

Your faithful Commons to your cravings
Will not give up the nation's savings—
Your fav'rite minister, I'm told, runs restiff,
And growls at such petitions like a mastiff.

What if my good friend Hastings goes to pot?
Adams and Anstruther have flung hard stones—
He finds his situation rather hot—
Burke, Fox, and Sheridan, may break his bones.

As surely as we saw and felt the bulse,
Hastings hath got a very awkard pulse;
Therefore in jeopardy the culprit stands!
Like patients whose disorders doctors slight
Too often, he may bid us all good night;
And slip, poor man, between our hands.

Then, sir!—oh! then, as long as life endures,
Nought but remembrance of the bulse is ours;
And to a stomach that like ours digests,
Slight is the dinner on remember'd feasts.

I think we cases understand, and ken
Symptoms, as well as most ingenious men;
But Lord! how oft the wisest are mistaken!
Therefore I tremble for his badger'd bacon.

We may be out, with all our skill so clever,
And what we think an ague, prove jail fever.

Nebuchadnezzar, sir, the king,
As sacred hist'ries sweetly sing,

418

Was on all fours turn'd out to grass,
Just like a horse, or mule, or ass:
Heav'ns! what a fall from kingly glory!
I hope it will not so turn out
That we shall have (to make a rout)
A second part of that old story!

This pension was well meant, O glorious king,
And for the bard a very pretty thing;
But let me, sir, refuse it, I implore—
I ought not to be rich whilst you are poor;
No, sir, I cannot be your humble hack;
I fear your majesty would break my back.

I dare refuse you for another reason—
We differ in religion, sir, a deal:
You fancy it a sin ally'd to treason,
And vastly dangerous to the commonweal,
For subjects, minuets and jigs to play
On the Lord's day.

Now, sir, I'm very fond of fiddling—
And, in my morals, what the world calls middling:
I've ask'd my conscience, that came straight from Heav'n,
Whether I stood a chance to be forgiv'n,
If on a Sunday, from all scruples free,
I scrap'd the old Black Joke and chere amie.

‘Ah! fool (exclaim'd my conscience), know,
God never against music made a rule;
On Sundays you may safely take your bow—
And play as well the fiddle as the fool.’

A late archbishop , too, O king,
Who knew most secrets of the skies,
Said, Heav'n on Sundays relish'd pipe and string
Where sounds on sounds unceasing rise—

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And ask'd, as Sunday had its music there,
Why Sunday should not have its music here.

In consequence of this divine opinion,
That prince of parsons in your great dominion,
Inform'd his fashionable wife,
That she might have her Sunday routs and cards;
And meet at last with Heav'n's rewards,
When death should take her precious life.

Thus dropping pious qualms, religious doubts,
His lady did enjoy her Sunday routs!
Upon Good-Friday too, that awful day,
Lo! like Vauxhall, was Lambeth all so gay!

Now if his present grace, with sharpen'd eyes,
Could squint a little deeper in the skies,
He might be able to inform his dame
Of two impostors, p'rhaps, call'd sin and shame,
Who many a pleasure from our grasp remove,
Pretending to commissions from above.

Like this, a secret, could his grace explore,
What a proud day for us and Mistress Moore;
For lo, two greater foes we cannot name
To this world's joys than Messieurs Sin and Shame.

Then might we think no more of praise and pray'r,
But leave at will our Maker in the lurch:
Sleep, racket, lie a bed, or take the air,
And send our servants and the dogs to church.

Sunday, like other days, would then have life:
Now prim, and starch, and silent, as a quaker—
And gloomy in her looks, as if the wife
Or widow of an undertaker,

Happy should I have been, my liege,
So great a monarch to oblige:
And, sir, between you, and the post,
And me you don't know what you've lost.

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The loss of me, so great a bard,
Is not, O king! to be repair'd.
My verse superior to the hardest rock,
Nor earthquake fears, nor sea, nor fire;
Surpassing, therefore, Mistress Damer's block,
That boasts so strong a likeness of you, sire.
That block, so pond'rous, must with age decay,
And all the lines of wisdom wear away:
I grant the lady's loyalty and love;
Yet, ‘none but Phidias should attempt a Jove.’

The Macedonian hero grac'd the stone
Of fam'd Praxiteles alone;
Forbidding others to attempt his nob,
It was so great and difficult a job.

Augustus swore an oath so dread,
He'd cut off any poet's head,
But Virgil's, that should dare his praise rehearse,
Or mention ev'n his name in verse.

Then, sir, if I may be a little free,
My art would suit your merits to a T.

Lord! in my adamantine lays
Your virtues would like bonfires blaze—
So firm your tuneful jeweller would set 'em,
They'd break the teeth of Time to eat 'em.

Wrapp'd in the splendour of my golden line,
For ever would your majesty be fine!
Appear a gentleman of first repute,
And always glitter in a birth-day suit.

Then to all stories would I give the lie,
That dar'd attack you, and your fame devour;
Making a king a ninepin in our eye,
Who ought like Egypt's pyramids to tow'r;
Such as the following fable, for example;
Of impudence, unprecedented sample!

His Majesty's baby oratorios in Tottenhamstreet, after a great struggle to live, are absolutely dead. Poor souls! they died of a famine—Drury-Lane and Covent-Garden oratorios eat away their meat.

Here is a pretty little nutshell of a theatre, fitted up for the convenience of ladies and gentlemen of quality who wish to expose themselves.

Princess Royal.

Cornwallis.