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

Peter beginneth to criticise—Addresseth the British Raphael—Promiseth Mr. West great things, and like great Folks breaks his Word—Laugheth at the Figure of King Charles—Lasheth that of Oliver Cromwell; and ridiculeth the Picture of Peter and John galloping to the Sepulchre— Understandeth plain-work, and justly condemneth the Shortness of the Shirts of Mr. West's Angels—Concludeth with making that Artist a handsome Offer of an American Immortality.

Now for my criticism on paints,
Where bull-dogs, heroes, sinners, saints,
Flames, thunder, lightning, in confusion meet!—
Behold the works of Mr. West!—
That artist first shall be addrest—
His pencil with due reverence I greet—

Still bleeding from his last year's wound,
Which from my doughty lance he found;
Methinks I hear the trembling painter bawl,
‘Why dost thou persecute me, Saul?’

West, let me whisper in thy ear—
Snug as a thief within a mill,
From me thou hast no cause to fear,
To panegyric will I turn my skill;
And if thy picture I am forc'd to blame,
I'll say most handsome things about the frame.

Don't be cast down—instead of gall,
Molasses from my pen shall fall:
And yet, I fear thy gullet it is such,

That could I pour all Niagara down,
Were Niagara praise, thou wouldst not frown.
Nor think the thund'ring gulf one drop too much.

Ye gods! the portrait of the King!
A very Saracen! a glorious thing!
It shows a flaming pencil, let me tell ye—
Methinks I see the people stare,
And, anxious for his life, declare,
‘King George hath got a fireship in his belly.’

Thy Charles!—what must I say to that?
Each face unmeaning, and so flat!—
Indeed, first cousin to a piece of board—
But, Muse, we've promis'd in our lays,
To give our Yankey painter praise;
So, madam, 'tis but fair to keep your word.

Well then, the Charles of Mr. West,
And Oliver, I do protest,
And eke the witnesses of resurrection ;
Will stop a hole, keep out the wind,
And make a properer window-blind,
Than great Correggio's, us'd for horse-protection .

They'll make good floor-cloths, tailors' measures,
For table coverings, be treasures,
With butchers, form for flies most charming flappers;
And Monday mornings at the tub,
When queens of suds their linen scrub,
Make for the blue-nos'd nymphs delightful wrappers.

West, I forgot last year to say,
Thy Angels did my delicacy hurt;
Their linen so much coarseness did display:
What's worse, each had not above half a shirt.
I tell thee, cambric fine as webs of spiders,
Ought to have deck'd that brace of heavenly riders.

Could not their saddle-bags, pray, jump
To something longer for each rump?
I'd buy much better at a Wapping shop,
By vulgar tongues baptiz'd a slop!
Do mind, my friend, thy hits another time,
And thou shalt cut a figure in my rhime.
Sublimely tow'ring 'midst th' Atlantic roar,
I'll waft thy praises to thy native shore ;
Where Liberty's brave sons their pœans sing,
And every scoundrel convict is a king.

Peter and John.

Correggio's best pictures were actually made use of in the royal stables in the North, to keep the wind from the tails of the horses.

America.