IMITATION OF HORACE.
(ODE XII. BOOK I.)
ON MESSIEURS PITT AND CO.
Muse, having dropp'd Sir Joseph and the king,
What sort of gentry shall we deign to sing?
What high and mighty name that all adore?
What ministerial wight that bribes each cit,
Wolf-like to howl for homage to King Pitt,
And set each smoky ale-house in a roar;
That sends to counties, borough-towns, his crimps,
Alias his vote-seducing pimps,
To bribe the mob with brandy, beer, and song,
To put their greasy fists to court addresses,
Full of professions kind, and sweet caresses,
And with a fiddle lead the logs along.
Shall Dornford, king of wine, and mum, and perry,
Be crown'd with lyric bays, with Master Merry;
Two sages who, in diff'rent places born,
Chick Lane and Black-boy Alley did adorn?
Or, Muse, suppose we sing King Pitt himself,
The greatest man on earth—a cunning elf,
Who driveth, Jehu-like, the church and state:
And, next to royal Pitt, we'll sing the dame,
Of open, gen'rous, charitable fame,
Lamenting sad a monarch's hapless fate;
Who, though transfix'd by sorrow's dart so cruel,
So prudent, numbers each bank-note and jewel?
Nor shall we by old Bacchus Weymouth pass,
A jolly fellow o'er his glass—
Nor, Swellenberg, shalt thou a shrimp appear,
Whose palate loves a dainty dish,
Whose teeth in combat shine with flesh and fish,
Whose Strelitz stomach holds a butt of beer;
Who soon shalt keep a saleshop for good places,
For which so oft the people squabble,
From gaping cobblers to their gaping graces,
And thus provide for great and little rabble.
I'll sing how calmly C******n takes the bit,
And trots so mildly under Master Pitt;
And Th******w, too, whom none but Pitt could tame,
Who, blest with Master Billy's finest saddle,
No longer makes our brains with neighing addle,
No longer now Job's war-horse snorting flame;
But that slow brute whom few or none revere,
Fam'd for his fine base voice and length of ear;
Yet now so gentle you may smooth his nose—
Poor Ch***c*llor
will make no riot—
Calm in his stall his aged limbs repose,
And pleas'd he eats his oats and hay in quiet!
This pair, so tame, amid the courtier throng,
Shall drag their Master William's coach along,
And raise the wonder of the million;
Just like two bull-dogs in a country town,
That gallop in their harness up and down,
With Monsieur Monkey for postillion.
We'll sing the brothers of our loving queen,
Fine, hungry, hearty youths as e'er were seen;
Who, if once try'd, would shine, I make no doubt;
And chiefly he who merits high rewards,
Who, wriggling to the Hanoverian guards,
Kept the poor Prince of Brunswick out,
Although so brave a prince, and spilt his blood
So freely for the king of England's
good.
We'll sing, too, Master R*lle, who, fond of fame,
High-daring, from the land of dumplings came,
To bear the minister—to be his ass—
Like Conj'ror Balaam's reas'ning brute,
That carry'd Balaam, Balak to salute,
And curse the Israelites, alas!
And, lo! as did the Lord—
Who op'd the mouth of Balaam's beast:
So hath our Lord, 'Squire Pitt, upon my word,
Op'd Master R*lle's, to give the house a feast!
Yet, hang it, Dev'nshire is by Aram
beat—
A circumstance that wrings the poet's soul—
For Balaam's jackass made a speech quite neat,
Which never yet was done by Pitt's poor R*****
Or shall I sing old Cornwall's death,
Or fierce Sir Bullface, who resign'd his breath
With brother Cornwall in the self-same year—
A downright bear!
Who bade a monarch, like a boy at school,
Not spend his money like a f***l?
We too might sing the king of swine,
Sir Joseph! peerless in the fatt'ning line.
We too may Brudenell sing, who, some time since,
Admir'd and lov'd, ador'd and prais'd his prince;
Follow'd him, spaniel-like, about;
Swore himself black, poor fellow, in the face,
That he would ten times rather lose his place
Than leave him—Thus said he with phiz devout:
But when it came to pass his highness try'd him,
This false apostle, Peter-like, deny'd him!
We'll sing Lord Galloway, a man of note,
Who turn'd his tailor, much enraged, away,
Because he stitch'd a star upon his coat
So small, it scarcely threw a ray—
Whereas he wish'd a planet huge to flame,
To put the moon's full orb to shame—
He wanted one so large, with rays so thick,
As to eclipse the star of Sir John Dick!
Sir John, who got his star, so bright and stout,
For making super-excellent sour krout
.
Or, Muse, suppose we sing the Sp---ker's wig,
In which, 'tis said, a world of wisdom lies;
Which, to a headpiece scarcely worth a fig,
Importance gives, that greatly doth surprise,
When through the chaos of the house he bawls
For order that oft flies St. Stephen's walls;
Driv'n by a host of scrapes, and hawks, and hums,
And blowing noses, that distract her drums.
For, Muse, we can't well sing poor Gr---lle's head,
Because it wanteth eyes—imperfect creature!
Again—its lining happ'neth to be lead—
Such are the whimsicalities of nature:
And thus this speaking headpiece is, no doubt,
As dark within as certés 'tis without!
Yet was this youth proclaim'd a pretty sprig,
A very promising, a thriving twig,
That by his parents dear was said would be,
In time, a very comely tree,
And what those parents dear would also suit,
Produce enormous quantities of fruit,
By God's good grace, and much good looking after—
A thought that now convulseth us with laughter!
Suppose we chaunt old Willis and his whip,
At which the human hide revolts;
Who bids, like grasshoppers, his pupils skip,
And breaks mad gentlemen like colts;
Or trains them, like a pointer, to his hand—
And such the mighty conjuror's command,
He, by the magic of sticks, ropes, and eyes,
Commands wild folly to be tame and wise.
Or grant we throw away a verse or two
Upon the bedchamber's most idle imps—
Those lords of gingerbread—a gaudy crew,
Sticking together just like social shrimps;
Regardless who the state coach drives,
So they may lead good, merry, lazy lives;
Pleas'd e'en from devils to receive their pay,
So they, like moths, may flutter life away!
Pitt shall the House of Commons rule,
And eke of poor incurables the school;
And pour on such the vengeance of his spleen
As meanly think of Hastings and the ------!
On di'monds Pitt and Co. shall largely feast,
Knock down the nabobs, and exhaust the East!
O lady! whose great wisdom thinketh fit
To spread thy petticoat o'er William Pitt!
This William Pitt and thou, without a joke,
Will turn out most extraordinary folk;
Pitt and the petticoat shall rule together,
Each with the other vastly taken;
Make, when they choose, or fair or filthy weather,
And cut up kingdoms just like bacon!
Thus having finish'd, Prudence with a stare,
Exclaim'd, ‘Rank irony—thou wicked poet,’—
Quoth I, ‘My little Presbyterian fair,
I know it.’
‘Ah!’ quoth the dame again, with lifted eyes,
‘When will this stupid world be wise?’
‘Ah! had the prince his proper int'rest felt,
And like Bucephalus, the famous, knelt
To take Pitt Alexander on his back,
He might have ambled prettily along,
And very rarely felt his rider's thong—
Just now and then a gentle smack,
T'inform his royal colt what being rode him,
And with such dignity bestrode him.
Yes—had his highness but vouchshaf'd to stoop,
With heav'n born Pitt he might have eat his soup,
Joy'd in the full possession of his wishes,
And with his servant shar'd the loaves and fishes!’
