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

Wide gapes the thoughtless mouth of moon-ey'd wonder,
Whilst ‘gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder,’
With Calumny's dark hounds the bard pursue:
‘Bring on his marrow-bones th' apostate down,
The turncoat is a flatt'rer of the crown;
Burn all his verses, burn the author too:’

Such is the sound of millions! such the roar
Of billows booming on the rocky shore!
‘How chang'd his note! (they cry) now spinning rhimes,
In compliment to monarchs of the times,
Who lately felt no mercy from his rancour;
The star-bedizen'd sycophants of state,
Blue-ribbon'd knaves have brib'd his pliant hate;
Behold him at St. James's snug at anchor.’

Thus on my ears, so patient let me say,
They pour their rough, rude peals of groundless clamour;
Battering, pell mell, upon my head away,
Just like on anvils the smith's sledge and hammer!

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Howe'er the world in scorn may shake its head,
Nor knave nor fool through me shall current pass;
Too honest yet, I thank my stars, to spread
The muse's silver o'er a lump of brass.

I own the voice of Censure very proper;
Greatly resembling a tobacco-stopper;
Confining all the seeds of fire so stout,
And quick in growth, when left to run about:

But possibly I'm harden'd—yes, I fear
Her frequent strokes have form'd a callous ear.

There was a time when Peter ghost-like star'd
When Censure thunder'd!—star'd with awe profound;
With sighs to deprecate her wrath, prepar'd;
So chill'd with horror at the solemn sound!
But harden'd, soon he gave his ague o'er;
Look'd up, and smil'd, and thought of her no more.

Thus when an earthquake bids Jamaica tremble;
On Sunday all the folks to church assemble,
To sooth Jehovah, so devoutly studying—
Prostrate they vow to keep his holy laws:
Returning home, they smite their hungry craws,
And scarce indulge them with a slice of pudding—
Deeming, in earth-quake time, a dainty board,
A sad abomination to the Lord!

Ere Sunday comes again, their hearts recover;
The tempest of their fears blown over,
Fled ev'ry terror of the burning lake,
They think they have no business now with church;
So, calmly leave th' Almighty in the lurch,
And sin it—till he gives a second shake.

The ladies too have join'd the gen'ral cry!
What! those divinities in Peter's eye!
Angels in petticoats!—it ill behoves 'em:
What! bite the constant Stentor of their praise,
Who robb'd the muses of their sweetest lays,
To tell the world how much he loves 'em!

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The bard, who vouches for their harmless souls,
And like another Cicero persuades,
The phrensy'd eye of admiration rolls—
Ready to kneel and worship 'em—Oh jades!

Ladies and gentlemen,
Know, that I scorn a prostituted pen:
No royal rotten wood, my verse veneers—
O yield me, for a moment yield your ears.

Stubborn, and mean, and weak, nay fools indeed,
Though kings may be, we must support the breed.
Yet join I issue with you—yes, 'tis granted,
That through the world such royal folly rules,
As bids us think thrones advertise for fools;
Yet is a king a utensil much wanted—

A screw, a nail, a bolt, to keep together
The ship's old leaky sides in stormy weather;
Which screw, or nail, or bolt, its work performs,
Though downright ignorant of ships and storms.

I knuckle not—I owe not to the great
A thimble-full of obligation;
Nor luscious wife have I, their lips to treat,
To lift me to Preferment's sunny station;

Like many a gentleman whom love promotes,
Whose lofty front the ray of gold adorns;
Resembling certain most ingenious goats,
That climb up precipices by their horns.

I'm not oblig'd (believe my honest word)
To kiss—what shall I call 't?—of any lord:
Not pepper-corn acknowledgement I owe 'em;
Nay, like the God of truth, I scarcely know 'em.

By me unprais'd are dukes and earls:
At such most commonly my satire snarls—
My pride like theirs the high-nos'd elves,
Who love what's equal only to themselves.

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As for court virtues, wheresoe'er they lie,
I leave them all to Mister Laureat Pye,
The fashionable bard, whom courts revere;
Who trotteth, with a grave and goodly pace,
Deep laden with his sov'reign, twice a year,
Around Parnassus's old famous base:
Not only proving his great king alive,
But that, like docks, the royal virtues thrive.

But I'm not qualified to be a hack;
Too proud to carry lumber on my back:—
Too dainty is my lady muse, I hope,
Into a coalshed to convert her shop:
Her shop indeed—a very handsome room,
Fill'd with rich spices and Parnassian bloom.

Court poets must create—on trifles rant—
Make something out of nothing—Lord, I can't!
Bards must bid virtues crowd on kings in swarms,
However from such company remote;—
Just as good-natur'd heralds make up arms
For nabob-robbers born without a coat.

I'm a poor botching tailor for a court,
Low bred on liver, and what clowns call mugget :
Besides, what greatly too my gains would hurt,
I cannot sew gold lace upon a drugget.

Say not I'm turn'd towards the scepter'd great:
Talk not of kings—I deem one half a cheat:
Felt is their weakness—husks, mere husks of men!
Yes, they create nobility—I know it;
The veriest idiot of them all can do it,
And on the falcon's perch can place the wren.

But can a king command th' ethereal flame
That clothes with immortality a name?
Oh, could the race that fire ethereal catch!

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But no such privilege to kings is giv'n:
So very low their int'rest lies in heav'n,
They can't command enough to light a match.

No, sirs, and therefore pray be civil;
I've not yet bargain'd with the devil.

Yet grant me sold—I've precedents a store;
Besides, we poets are confounded poor;
And, ah! how hard to starve, to please Morality!
For Hunger, though a fav'rite of old saints,
Whose pinching virtue pious hist'ry paints,
Is reckon'd now a fellow of bad quality:
Not deem'd a gentleman—can't show his face,
Ev'n where Saint Peter's children give the grace!

A rosy sinner, Luxury yclept,
Long in his place hath eat, and drunk, and slept.

Yes, (as I've said) we bards are mostly poor,
Can scarcely drive gaunt Famine from the door!
That Helicon's a hellish stream, God knows!
Ah me! most rarely it Pactolian flows:
Though sharp as hawks, and hungry too, and thick,
Few are the golden grains that poets pick;
And yet each new advent'rer of the Nine,
Deems all Parnassus one mere golden mine.

All this by way of wild digression—
And now for my political confession.

Again, ye Crown-and-Anchor sinners,
I reprobate your revolution dinners.
Nature at times makes wretched wares;
(Amongst the smiling corn like cares)
Men with such miserable souls!
Nought pleases, from the moment of their birth;
With horror for a while they blot the earth,
Then crab-like, crawl into their burying-holes.

226

How like a dreary dull December day,
That shows his muddy discontented head,
Low'rs on the world awhile, then moves away
In gloom and sullenness to bed!

Have not our revolution host a few
Of souls of this same Æthiop hue?

Permit me, sirs, to tell you, ye are mad;
Your case, although not mortal, yet quite bad:
An ugly inflammation of the brain.
Although a dull physician, I could find
Something to calm the hurry of the mind,
And bring you back to common sense again—
The stocks would do it, gentlemen, or jails:
A heavy nostrum—yet it rarely fails.

Lo, Drunkenness, a blust'ring, bullying blade,
The cock'd hat covering half one eye so brave,
As though dread valour were his meat, his trade,
Nature a driv'ler, and the world his slave:
He rants, roars, prays, howls, swears, on boldly goes,
To seize sun, moon, and planets, by the nose;

When lo, Night's long-staff'd guardian to him steals,
Squints with one eye on him, and then the other;
To pillow well his head, trips up his heels,
And lays him on old earth, our common mother—

Thence at the round-house, in about an hour,
Renews his poor debilitated pow'r
Of comprehending, feeling, hearing, seeing—
Yet is this watchman too a heavy being.

Keel up lies France!—long may she keep that posture!
Her knav'ry, folly, on the rocks have toss'd her;
Behold the thousands that surround the wreck!
Her cables parted, rudder gone,
Split all her sails, her main-mast down,
Choak'd all her pumps, broke in her deck;
Sport for the winds, the billows o'er her roll!
Now am I glad of it with all my soul.

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France lifts the busy sword of blood no more;
Lost to its giant grasp the wither'd hand:
O say, what kingdom can her fate deplore,
The dark disturber of each happy land?

To Britain an insidious damn'd Iägo—
Remember, Englishmen, old Cato's cry,
And keep that patriot model in your eye—
His constant cry, ‘Delenda est Carthago.’

France is our Carthage, that sworn foe to truth,
Whose perfidy deserves th' eternal chain!
And now she's down, our British bucks forsooth
Would lift the stabbing strumpet up again.

Love I the French?—By heav'ns 'tis no such matter!
Who loves a Frenchman, wars with simple nature.
What Frenchman loves a Briton?—None:
Yet by the hand this enemy we take;
Yes, blund'ring Britons bosom up the snake,
And feel themselves, too late indeed, undone.

The converse chaste of day, and eke of night,
The kiss-clad moments of supreme delight,
To Love's pure passion only due;
The seraph smile that soft-ey'd Friendship wears,
And Sorrow's balm of sympathizing tears,
Those iron fellows never knew.

For this I hate them.—Art, all vanish'd art!
This doth experience ev'ry moment prove:
And hollow must to all things be the heart,
That foe to beauty, which deceives in love.

Hear me, Dame Nature, on those men of cork—
Blush at a Frenchman's heart, thy handy work;
A dunghill that luxuriant feeds
The gaudy and the rankest weeds!
Deception, grub-like, taints its very core,
Like flies in carrion—pr'ythee, make no more.

Not but a neighb'ring nation to the French
Have morals that emit a stronger stench,

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That Christian noses scarcely can withstand:
The heart a dungeon, hollow, dark, and foul,
The dwelling of the toad, snake, bat, and owl,
Demons, and all the grimly spectre band.

Mad fools!—And can we deem the French profound,
And, pleas'd, their infant politics embrace,
Who drag a noble pyramid to ground,
Without one pebble to supply its place?

Yet are they follow'd, prais'd, admir'd, ador'd.
Be with such praise, these ears no longer bor'd!
This moment could I prove it to the nation all,
That verily a Frenchman is not rational.

Yes, Frenchmen, this is my unvarying creed,
‘You are not rational indeed;
So low have fond conceit and folly sunk ye:
Only a larger kind of monkey!’

‘What art thou writing now?’ the world exclaims,
‘Thou man of brass!’
Good world, no names, no names—I beg, no names—
Writing?—an Ode to my old fav'rite Ass.

Not making royal varnish—no!
My ass's virtues bid my numbers flow:
Peter his name, my namesake, a good beast;
A servant to my family some years.—
To me is gratitude a turtle feast;
It is a virtue that my soul reveres;
And therefore I've been fabricating metre
All in the praise of honest Peter.

Part of the entrails of certain cattle.

Archbishops, bishops, &c.