ODE TO MY ASS, PETER.
O thou, my solemn friend, of man despis'd,
But not by me despis'd—respected long!
To prove how much thy qualities are priz'd,
Accept, old fellow-traveller, a song.
My great great ancestor, of lyric fame,
Immortal! threw a glory round the horse;
Then, as I lit my candle at his flame,
That candle shall illumine thee of course.
For why not thou, in works and virtues rich,
In Fame's fair temple also boast a niche?
How many a genius, 'midst a vulgar pack,
Oblivion stuffs into her sooty sack,
Calmly as Jew old-clothes men, in their bags,
Mix some great man's lac'd coat with dirty rags;
Or satin petticoat of some sweet maid,
That o'er her beauties cast an envious shade!
And what's the reason?—Reason too apparent!
Ah! ‘quia vate sacro carent,’
As Horace says, that bard divine,
Whose wits so fortunately jump with mine.
Ah, Peter, I remember, oft, when tir'd
And most unpleasantly at times bemir'd,
Bold hast thou said, ‘I'll budge not one inch further;
‘And now, young master, you may kick or murther.’
Then have I cudgell'd thee—a fruitless matter!
For 'twas in vain to kick, or flog, or chatter.
Though, Balaam-like, I curs'd thee with a smack;
Sturdy thou dropp'dst thine ears upon thy back,
And trotting retrograde, with wriggling tail,
In vain did I thy running rump assail:
For lo, between thy legs thou putt'dst thine head,
And gavest me a puddle for a bed.
Now this was fair—the action bore no guile:
Thou duck'dst me not, like Judas, with a smile.
O were the manners of some monarchs such,
Who smile ev'n in the close insidious hour
That kicks th' unguarded minion from his pow'r!
But this is asking p'rhaps of kings too much.
O Peter, little didst thou think, I ween,
When I a school-boy on thy back was seen,
Riding thee oft, in attitude uncouth;
For bridle, an old garter in thy mouth;
Jogging and whistling wild o'er hill and dale,
On sloes, or nuts, or strawb'ries to regale—
I say, O Peter, little didst thou think,
That I, thy namesake, in immortal ink
Should dip my pen, and rise a wondrous bard,
And gain such praise, sublimity's reward;
But not the laurel—honour much too high;
Giv'n by the king of isles to Mister Pye,
Who sings his sov'reign's virtues twice a year,
And therefore cannot chronicle small beer.
Yet simple as Montaigne, I'll tell thee true;
There are, who on my verses look askew,
And call my lyric lucubrations stuff:
But I'm a modest, not unconnyinge elf,
Or I could say such things about myself—
But God forbid that I should puff!
Yet natural are selfish predilections!
Like snakes they writhe about the heart's affections,
And sometimes too infuse a poisonous spirit;
Producing, as by nat'ralists I'm told,
Torpid insensibility, so cold
To ev'ry brother's rising merit.
Wits to each other just like loadstones act,
That do not always like firm friends attract;
Though of the same rare nature, (strange to tell!)
The little harden'd rogues as oft repel.
But lo, of thee I'll speak, my long-ear'd friend!
Great were the wonders of thy heels of yore;
Victorious, for lac'd hats didst thou contend;
And ribbons grac'd thy ears—a gaudy store.
Buff breeches too have crown'd a proud proud day,
Not thou, but which thy rider wore away;
Triumphant strutting through the world he strode,
Great soul! deserving an Olympic ode.
Thy bravery often did I much approve;
Rais'd by that queen of passions, Love.
Whene'er in Love's delicious phrensy crost
By long-ear'd brothers, lo wert thou a host!
Love did thy lion-heart with courage steel!
Quicker than that of Vestris mov'd thy heel:
Here, there, up, down, in, out, how thou didst smite!
And then no alderman could match thy bite!
And is thy race no more rever'd?
Indeed 'tis greatly to be fear'd!
Yet shalt thou flourish in immortal song,
To me if immortality belong;
For stranger things than this have come to pass—
Posterity thine hist'ry shall devour,
And read with pleasure how, when vernal show'r
In gay profusion rais'd the dewy grass,
I led thee forth, thine appetite to please,
And mid the verdure saw thee up to knees!
How, oft I pluck'd the tender blade!
And, happy, how thou cam'st at my command,
And wantoning around, as though afraid,
With poking neck didst pull it from my hand,
Then scamper, kicking, frolicksome, away,
With such a fascinating bray!
Where oft I paid thee visits, and where thou
Didst cock with happiness thy kingly ears,
And grin so 'witchingly, I can't tell how,
And dart at me such friendly leers;
With such a smiling head, and laughing tail:
And when I mov'd, how griev'd, thou seem'dst to say,
Dear master, let your humble ass prevail;
‘Pray, master do not go away’—
And how (for what than friendship can be sweeter?)
I gave thee grass again, O pleasant Peter.
And how, when winter bade the herbage die,
And Nature mourn'd beneath the stormy sky;
When waving trees, surcharg'd with chilling rain,
Dropp'd seeming tears upon the harass'd plain,
I gave thee a good stable, warm as wool,
With oats to grind, and hay to pull:
Thus, whilst abroad December rul'd the day,
How plenty show'd within, the blooming May!
And lo, to future times it shall be known,
How, twice a day, to comb and rub thee down,
And be thy bed-maker at night,
Thy groom attended, both with hay and oat,
By which thy back could boast a handsome coat,
And laugh at many a fine court lord and knight,
Whose strutting coats belong p'rhaps to the tailor,
And probably their bodies to the jailor!
What though no dimples thou hast got;
Black sparkling eyes (the fashion) are thy lot,
And oft a witching smile and cheerful laugh;
And then thy cleanliness!—'tis strange to utter!
Like sin, thy heels avoid a pool, or gutter;
And then the stream so daintily dost quaff!
Unlike a country alderman, who blows,
And in the mug baptizeth mouth and nose!
What though I've heard some voices sweeter;
Yet exquisite thy hearing, gentle Peter!
Whether a judge of music, I don't know—
If so,
Thou hast th' advantage got of many a score
That enter at the opera door.
Some people think thy tones are rather coarse;
Ev'n love-sick tones, address'd to lady asses—
Octaves indeed of wondrous force;
And yet thy voice full many a voice surpasses.
Lord Cardigan, if rightly I divine,
Would very gladly give his voice for thine:
And Lady Mount
, her majesty's fine foil,
For whom perfumers, barbers, vainly toil,
Poor lady! who has quarrell'd with the graces,
Would very willingly change faces.
How honour'd once wert thou! but ah, no more!
Thus too despis'd the bards—esteem'd of yore!
How rated once, the tuneful tribes of Greece!
Deem'd much like di'monds—thousands worth a piece!
How great was Pindar's glory!—On a day,
Entering Apollo's church, to pray,
The lady of the sacred fane, or mistress,
Or, in more classic term, the priestess,
Address'd him with ineffable delight—
‘Great sir, (quoth she) in pigs, and sheep, and calves,
Master insists upon't that you go halves:
To beef his godship also gives you right.’
Thus did the twain most hearty dinners make;
Pindar and Phœbus eating steak and steak:
When too (Pausanius says), to please the god—
Between each mouthful, Pindar sung an ode!
Thus half a deity was this great poet!
Now this was grand in Phœbus—vastly civil—
How chang'd are things! the present moments show it;
For bard is now synonymous with Devil!
Just to three hundred years ago, I speak—
How simple scholarship was wont to rule!
A man like Doctor Parr, that mouth'd but Greek,
Was almost worshipp'd by the sage and fool;
Deem'd by the world indeed a first-rate star.
How diff'rent now the fate of Doctor Parr!
Unknown he walks!—his name no infants lisp—
Not only reckon'd not a first-rate star
Is this our Greek man, Doctor Parr,
But, Gods! not equal to a Will-o'-wisp!
Plague on't! how niggardly the trump of Fame,
That wakes not Bellendenus
on the shelf!
The world so still, too, on the doctor's name,
The man is really forc'd to praise himself!
‘Archbishops, bishops,’ (so says Doctor Parr)
‘By alpha, beta, merely, have been made;
Why from the mitre then am I so far;
So long a dray-horse in this thundering trade’
O Pitt, shame on thee!—art thou still to seek
The soul of wisdom in the sound of Greek?’
Peter, suppose we make a bit of style,
And rest ourselves a little while?
IN CONTINUATION.
THUS endeth Doctor Parr; and now again,
To thee, as good a subject, flows the strain.
Permit me, Peter, in my lyric canter,
Just to speak Latin—‘tempora mutantur!’
Kings did not scorn to press your backs of yore;
But now, with humbled neck and patient face,
Tied to a thievish miller's dusty door,
I mark thy fall'n and disregarded race.
To chimney-sweepers now a common hack;
Now with a brace of sand-bags on your back!
No gorgeous saddles yours—no iv'ry cribs;
No silken girts surround your ribs;
No royal hands your cheeks with pleasure pat;
Cheeks by a roguish halter prest—
Your ears and rump, of insolence the jest;
Dragg'd, kick'd, and pummell'd, by a beggar's brat.
Thus, as I've said, your race is much degraded!
And much too is the poet's glory faded!
A time there was, when kings of this fair land,
So meek, would creep to poets, cap in hand,
Begging, as 'twere for alms, a grain of fame,
To sweeten a poor putrifying name—
But past are those rich hours! ah, hours of yore!
Those golden sands of Time shall glide no more.
Yet are we not in thy discarded state,
Whate'er may be the future will of Fate;
Since, as we find by Pye (what still must pride us),
Kings twice a year can condescend to ride us.
AN AFTER-REFLECTION.
NOW, world, thou seest the stuff of which I'm made:
Firm to the honour of the tuneful trade;
Leaving, with high contempt, the courtier class,
To sing the merits of the humble ass.
Yet should a miracle the palace mend,
And high-nos'd Sal'sb'ry to the Virtues send,
Commanding them to come and chat with kings;
Well pleas'd repentant sinners to support,
So help me, Impudence, I'll go to court!
Besides, I dearly love to see strange things.
