The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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| PATHETIC ODES.
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
425
PATHETIC ODES.
THE DUKE OF RICHMOND's DOG THUNDER.
AND THE WIDOW's PIGS; A TALE.
THE POOR SOLDIER OF TILBURY FORT.—ODE TO CERTAIN FOREIGN SOLDIERS.—ODE TO EASTERN TYRANTS.—THE FROGS AND JUPITER; A FABLE.—THE DIAMOND PIN AND CANDLE; A FABLE.—THE SUN AND THE PEACOCK; A FABLE.
Far off the hero bleeds in Brighton wars,
At least his horse's ribs so glorious bleed:
Where, nobly daring danger, death, and scars,
He flies and rallies on his bounding steed.
At least his horse's ribs so glorious bleed:
Where, nobly daring danger, death, and scars,
He flies and rallies on his bounding steed.
427
EPISTLE DEDICATORY, TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RICHMOND.
429
ODE.
[Though huge to us this flying world appears]
The Poet giveth Philosophy's modest and sublime Picture of Infinity, a Picture damned by the great Folk of the present Day.—Peter maketh a most sagacious Discovery of a Connexion never thought of before, viz. between Folly and Grandeur. —He talketh of Wisdom, and abuseth the Blindness of the Vulgar.—He talketh of Flattery. —He plumply contradicteth the Vulgar, and advanceth unanswerable Reasons.—He descanteth on Mind and Body, proving that a Horsewhip is as necessary for the one as the other.—The wise and elegant Speech of the 'Squire, or elder Brother.—The Poet discovereth Distance to be the Parent of Admiration, and confuteth the Opinion of Mob, by a pantomimical Illustration. —Peter attacketh many great Men, most aptly making Use of a Windmill and a Warming -pan.—He selecteth one great and good Man from the herd of bad.
430
Though huge to us this flying world appears,
And great the bustle of a thousand years;
How small to him who form'd the vast of nature!
One trembling drop of animated water !
And great the bustle of a thousand years;
How small to him who form'd the vast of nature!
One trembling drop of animated water !
‘What are we?—Reptiles claiming Pity's sigh,
Though in our own conceits so fiercely stout;
Nay, such small wights in Providence's eye,
As asks Omnipotence to find us out.’
Though in our own conceits so fiercely stout;
Nay, such small wights in Providence's eye,
As asks Omnipotence to find us out.’
So says Philosophy.—‘Fudge, cant, mere words,
Trash, nonsense, impudence,’ cry kings and lords.
Trash, nonsense, impudence,’ cry kings and lords.
Ah, sirs! believe the sacred truths I tell—
Folly and Grandeur oft together dwell:
Folly with Title oft is seen to skip,
Stare from his eye, and grin upon his lip.
Folly and Grandeur oft together dwell:
Folly with Title oft is seen to skip,
Stare from his eye, and grin upon his lip.
Wisdom descendeth not from king to king,
Or lord to lord, like an estate;
The present day believeth no such thing—
Matters are vastly chang'd of late.
Or lord to lord, like an estate;
The present day believeth no such thing—
Matters are vastly chang'd of late.
What says Experience from her sober school?
‘Nature on many a titled front writes fool.
But, lo! the vulgar world is blind, stone blind;
The beast can see no writing of the kind;
Or if it sees, it cannot read—
Now this is marvellous indeed.’
‘Nature on many a titled front writes fool.
But, lo! the vulgar world is blind, stone blind;
The beast can see no writing of the kind;
Or if it sees, it cannot read—
Now this is marvellous indeed.’
Hark to the voice of Flatt'ry! thus she sings—
‘Gods of the earth are emp'rors, popes, and kings;
Godlings, our dukes and earls, and such fine folk.’
And thus the liar Flatt'ry sung of yore;
The fascinated million cry'd encore,
For Wisdom was too young to smell the joke.
‘Gods of the earth are emp'rors, popes, and kings;
Godlings, our dukes and earls, and such fine folk.’
And thus the liar Flatt'ry sung of yore;
The fascinated million cry'd encore,
For Wisdom was too young to smell the joke.
Wide was the sphere of Ignorance, alas!
And faint, too faint, of Truth's young sun the ray;
Too feeble through th' immense of gloom to pass,
And beaming chase a world of fog away.
And faint, too faint, of Truth's young sun the ray;
431
And beaming chase a world of fog away.
Ye Vulgar cry, ‘Great men are wondrous wise.’—
Whoever told you so, told arrant lies:
It cannot be.—Not! why?—Hear me, pray,
They are so dev'lish lazy, let me say.
Whoever told you so, told arrant lies:
It cannot be.—Not! why?—Hear me, pray,
They are so dev'lish lazy, let me say.
The mind wants lusty flogging, to be great:
To use a vulgar phrase, ‘The mind must sweat.’
Now men of worship will not sweat the mind;
Meat, clothes, and pleasure, come without, they find.
To use a vulgar phrase, ‘The mind must sweat.’
Now men of worship will not sweat the mind;
Meat, clothes, and pleasure, come without, they find.
What man will make a drayhorse of the soul,
To drag from Science's hard quarry, stone,
Who really wanteth nothing from the hole—
A toil which therefore may be let alone?
To drag from Science's hard quarry, stone,
Who really wanteth nothing from the hole—
A toil which therefore may be let alone?
Th' idea seems so wondrously uncouth,
As maketh ev'ry elder brother start;
Who openeth thus his widely-grinning mouth,
‘Fine fun, indeed, for me to drag a cart!
As maketh ev'ry elder brother start;
Who openeth thus his widely-grinning mouth,
‘Fine fun, indeed, for me to drag a cart!
‘Let younger brothers join it, if they please;
Old Square-toes, thank my God, has caught my fleas.’
Old Square-toes, thank my God, has caught my fleas.’
Suppose ye want a fine strong fellow?—speak,
Where for this fine strong fellow would ye seek?
‘Seek! seek a drayman,’ with one voice ye cry;
‘A chairman or a ploughman, to be sure;
Men who a constancy of toil endure;
Such are the fellows that we ought to try.’
Where for this fine strong fellow would ye seek?
‘Seek! seek a drayman,’ with one voice ye cry;
‘A chairman or a ploughman, to be sure;
Men who a constancy of toil endure;
Such are the fellows that we ought to try.’
This then is granted—well then, don't ye find
Some likeness 'twixt the body and the mind?
Some likeness 'twixt the body and the mind?
Distance has wonderful effects indeed;
But, sirs, this is not ev'ry body's creed:
Mob is not in the secret—that's the case;
Mob deemeth great men gods!—yes, ev'ry where,
Far off, or near.
Now let a short remark or two take place.
But, sirs, this is not ev'ry body's creed:
Mob is not in the secret—that's the case;
Mob deemeth great men gods!—yes, ev'ry where,
Far off, or near.
Now let a short remark or two take place.
432
First, I assure you that things are not so;
By G*d, they are not gods.—I pray ye, go
To pantomimes, where fine cascades and fields,
And rocks, a huge delight to Wonder yields:
By G*d, they are not gods.—I pray ye, go
To pantomimes, where fine cascades and fields,
And rocks, a huge delight to Wonder yields:
Approach them—what d'ye find the frowning rocks?
Lord! what imagination really shocks!
Black pairs of breeches, scarcely worth a groat:
What are the fields so flourishing? green baize,
The objects of your most astonish'd gaze:
What the cascade? a tinsel petticoat,
And tinsel gown upon a windlass turning
The fields and rocks so nat'rally adorning.
Lord! what imagination really shocks!
Black pairs of breeches, scarcely worth a groat:
What are the fields so flourishing? green baize,
The objects of your most astonish'd gaze:
What the cascade? a tinsel petticoat,
And tinsel gown upon a windlass turning
The fields and rocks so nat'rally adorning.
Great men, I've said it, often are great fools,
Great sycophants, great swindlers, and great knaves;
Too often bred in Tyranny's dark schools,
Happy to see the under-world their slaves.
Great men, at diff'rent times, are diff'rent too;
More so when int'rest is the game in view.
Great sycophants, great swindlers, and great knaves;
Too often bred in Tyranny's dark schools,
Happy to see the under-world their slaves.
Great men, at diff'rent times, are diff'rent too;
More so when int'rest is the game in view.
A windmill and a warming-pan, no doubt,
Are most unlike each other in their nature;
Yet, trust me, the same man, in place and out,
Is to the full as opposite a creature.
Are most unlike each other in their nature;
Yet, trust me, the same man, in place and out,
Is to the full as opposite a creature.
Yet some great men are good!—and, by mischance,
Their eyes on mis'ry will not always glance;
As, for example, Richmond's glorious grace,
A duke of most unquestionable merit,
With Merc'ry's cunning, and dread Mars's spirit,
Who took the Ordnance, a tremendous place!
Their eyes on mis'ry will not always glance;
As, for example, Richmond's glorious grace,
A duke of most unquestionable merit,
With Merc'ry's cunning, and dread Mars's spirit,
Who took the Ordnance, a tremendous place!
This Duke of Thunder is for ever spying;
To find out objects of sheer merit, trying:
How happy too, if objects of distress;
Thus is his Grace of Guns ador'd by all;
For this, where'er he rides, both great and small,
Him and his horse, with eyes uplifted, bless.
To find out objects of sheer merit, trying:
How happy too, if objects of distress;
Thus is his Grace of Guns ador'd by all;
For this, where'er he rides, both great and small,
Him and his horse, with eyes uplifted, bless.
433
This Turenne
would be sorry, very sorry,
Should one pale form of want his eye escape:
‘No,’ cries his grace, ‘Misfortune shall not worry,
Whilst I a sixpence for the poor can scrape,’
How much like majesty in Windsor town,
Hunting for Pity's objects up and down!
Should one pale form of want his eye escape:
‘No,’ cries his grace, ‘Misfortune shall not worry,
Whilst I a sixpence for the poor can scrape,’
How much like majesty in Windsor town,
Hunting for Pity's objects up and down!
Yet since distress has 'scap'd his grace's eye,
The muse o'er Tilb'ry Fort shall breathe a sigh.
Yet ere on Tilb'ry Fort we drop a tear,
Lo! with a tale we treat the public ear—
Relate a pretty story of his grace:
Much will the tale his grace's soul display—
Happ'ning ('tis said) at Goodwood on a day—
'Twill put a smile or frown on ev'ry face.
The muse o'er Tilb'ry Fort shall breathe a sigh.
Yet ere on Tilb'ry Fort we drop a tear,
Lo! with a tale we treat the public ear—
Relate a pretty story of his grace:
Much will the tale his grace's soul display—
Happ'ning ('tis said) at Goodwood on a day—
'Twill put a smile or frown on ev'ry face.
434
THE DUKE OF RICHMOND's DOG THUNDER,
AND THE WIDOW's PIG.
The Widow's whole Fortune lodged in the Sow. —Her Joy on the Sow's lying-in.—The Duke's Dog Thunder much like Courtiers.—Thunder killeth the young Pigs, yet surpasseth Courtiers in Modesty.—The Sow crieth out.—The Widow joineth the Sow in her Exclamations.—The old Steward cometh forth at the Cry of the Sow and Widow, and uttereth a most pathetic Exclamation. —A sensible Dissertation on the different Species of Compassion.—The Widow's piteous Address to his Grace.—His Grace's humane and generous Answer to the Widow.
A dame near Goodwood own'd a sow, her all,
Which nat'rally did into travail fall,
And brought forth many a comely son and daughter;
On which the widow wondrously was glad,
Caper'd and sung, as really she were mad—
But tears oft hang upon the heels of laughter.
Which nat'rally did into travail fall,
And brought forth many a comely son and daughter;
On which the widow wondrously was glad,
Caper'd and sung, as really she were mad—
But tears oft hang upon the heels of laughter.
435
At Goodwood dwelt the duke's great dog, call'd Thunder,
A dog, like courtiers, much inclin'd to plunder;
This dog, with courtier-jealousy so bitter,
Beheld the sweetly-snuffling sportive litter.
A dog, like courtiers, much inclin'd to plunder;
This dog, with courtier-jealousy so bitter,
Beheld the sweetly-snuffling sportive litter.
Bounce! without ‘by your leave,’ or least harangue,
Upon this harmless litter, Thunder sprang,
And murder'd brothers, sisters, quick as thought;
Then sneak'd away, his tail between his rear,
Seeming asham'd—unlike great courtiers here,
Who (Fame reporteth) are asham'd of nought.
Upon this harmless litter, Thunder sprang,
And murder'd brothers, sisters, quick as thought;
Then sneak'd away, his tail between his rear,
Seeming asham'd—unlike great courtiers here,
Who (Fame reporteth) are asham'd of nought.
The childless sow set up a shriek so loud!
All her sweet babies ready for the shroud;
Now chas'd the rogue that such sad mischief work'd;
Out ran the dame—join'd Mistress Sow's shrill cries;
Burst was at once the bag that held her sighs,
And all the bottles of her tears uncork'd.
All her sweet babies ready for the shroud;
Now chas'd the rogue that such sad mischief work'd;
Out ran the dame—join'd Mistress Sow's shrill cries;
Burst was at once the bag that held her sighs,
And all the bottles of her tears uncork'd.
‘Oh! the duke's dog has ruin'd me outright;
Oh! he hath murder'd all my pretty pigs.’
Forth march'd the steward, grey, with lifted sight,
And lifted hands, good man, and cry'd ‘Odsnigs!’
Oh! he hath murder'd all my pretty pigs.’
Forth march'd the steward, grey, with lifted sight,
And lifted hands, good man, and cry'd ‘Odsnigs!’
Word of surprise! which, with a plaintive tone,
And rueful countenance, and hollow groan,
Did seem like pity also, for her case:
Yet what's odsnigs, or moan, or groan, or sighs,
Unhelp'd, by Famine if the object dies?
Or what a yard of methodistic face?
And rueful countenance, and hollow groan,
Did seem like pity also, for her case:
Yet what's odsnigs, or moan, or groan, or sighs,
Unhelp'd, by Famine if the object dies?
Or what a yard of methodistic face?
Compassions differ very much, we find!
One deals in sighs—now sighs are merely wind:
Another only good advice affords,
Instead of alms—now this is only words:
Another cannot bear to see the poor;
So orders the pale beggar from the door.
One deals in sighs—now sighs are merely wind:
Another only good advice affords,
Instead of alms—now this is only words:
Another cannot bear to see the poor;
So orders the pale beggar from the door.
Now that compassion is the best, I think
(But, ah! the human soul it rarely graces),
Instead of groans, which giveth meat and drink;
Off'ring long purses too, instead of faces.
(But, ah! the human soul it rarely graces),
436
Off'ring long purses too, instead of faces.
But, muse, we drop dog, duke, and sow, and dame,
To follow an old pitiful remark;
Like wanton spaniels that desert the game,
To yelp and course a butterfly or lark.
To follow an old pitiful remark;
Like wanton spaniels that desert the game,
To yelp and course a butterfly or lark.
Now to his Grace the howling widow goes,
Wiping her eyes so red, and flowing nose.
Wiping her eyes so red, and flowing nose.
‘Oh! please your Grace, your Grace's dev'lish dog,
Thunder's confounded wicked chops
Have murder'd all my beauteous hopes—
I hope your Grace will pay for ev'ry hog.’
Thunder's confounded wicked chops
Have murder'd all my beauteous hopes—
I hope your Grace will pay for ev'ry hog.’
What answer gave his Graee?—With placid brow,
‘Don't cry,’ quoth he, ‘and make so much foul weather—
Go home, dame; and when thunder eats the sow,
I'll pay for all the family together.’
‘Don't cry,’ quoth he, ‘and make so much foul weather—
Go home, dame; and when thunder eats the sow,
I'll pay for all the family together.’
437
ODE TO A POOR SOLDIER OF TILBURY FORT.
The Poet pronounceth the very great Shyness subsisting between Merit and Money.—Merit's Connexion with Poverty, and the Consequence. Attack on Fortune.—Address to the poor Soldier. He pitieth the poor Soldier's pitiable Fate, viz. his ragged Coat, hungry Stomach, and Want of Fire.—His Companions on the Mud. —Peter smileth at the Hubbub made on Account of a Shot-hole in the little Coat of a great Prince, a Remnant of Glory that may probably add another Ray to the Lustre of St. Paul's.—Peter most pathetically inquireth for his Grace—proclaimeth him to be at Brighton, most heroically engaged.—The different Amusements of his Grace at Brighton, awake and asleep.—Crumbs of Consolation to the poor Soldier.
Merit and Money very seldom meet;
Form'd for each other, they should oftener greet;
Indeed much oftener should be seen together:
But Money, vastly shy, doth keep aloof;
Thus Poverty and Merit beat the hoof,
Expos'd, poor souls, to every kind of weather.
Form'd for each other, they should oftener greet;
Indeed much oftener should be seen together:
But Money, vastly shy, doth keep aloof;
Thus Poverty and Merit beat the hoof,
Expos'd, poor souls, to every kind of weather.
438
Thus as a greyhound is meek Merit lean,
So slammakin, untidy, ragged, mean,
Her garments all so shabby and unpinn'd:
But look at Folly's fat Dutch lubber child;
How on the tawdry cub has Fortune smil'd
When with contempt the goddess should have grinn'd!
So slammakin, untidy, ragged, mean,
Her garments all so shabby and unpinn'd:
But look at Folly's fat Dutch lubber child;
How on the tawdry cub has Fortune smil'd
When with contempt the goddess should have grinn'd!
So much for preamble; and now for thee,
Whose state forlorn his Grace could never see.
Whose state forlorn his Grace could never see.
Poor Soldier, after many a dire campaign,
Drawn mangled from the gory hills of slain,
Perhaps the soul of Belisarius thine;
Why with a tatter'd coat along the shore,
Where Ocean seems to heave a pitying roar,
Why do I see thee thus neglected pine?
Drawn mangled from the gory hills of slain,
Perhaps the soul of Belisarius thine;
Why with a tatter'd coat along the shore,
Where Ocean seems to heave a pitying roar,
Why do I see thee thus neglected pine?
Poor wretch! along the sands condemn'd to go,
And join a hungry dog, or famish'd cat,
A pig, a gull, a cormorant, a crow,
In quest of crabs, a muscle, or a sprat!
And join a hungry dog, or famish'd cat,
A pig, a gull, a cormorant, a crow,
In quest of crabs, a muscle, or a sprat!
Now, at Night's awful, pale, and silent noon,
Along the beach I see thee lonely creep,
Beneath the passing solitary moon,
A spectre stealing 'mid the world of sleep.
Along the beach I see thee lonely creep,
Beneath the passing solitary moon,
A spectre stealing 'mid the world of sleep.
Griev'd at thy channell'd cheek, and hoary hair,
And quiv'ring lip, I mark thy famish'd form,
And hollow jellied orbs that dimly stare,
Thou piteous pensioner upon the storm.
The muse's handkerchief shall wipe thine eye,
And bring sweet Hope to sooth the mournful sigh.
And quiv'ring lip, I mark thy famish'd form,
And hollow jellied orbs that dimly stare,
Thou piteous pensioner upon the storm.
The muse's handkerchief shall wipe thine eye,
And bring sweet Hope to sooth the mournful sigh.
Deserted hero! what! condemn'd to pick,
With wither'd, palsy'd, shaking, wounded hand,
Of wrecks, alas! the melancholy stick,
Thrown by the howling tempest on the strand?
With wither'd, palsy'd, shaking, wounded hand,
Of wrecks, alas! the melancholy stick,
Thrown by the howling tempest on the strand?
Glean'd with the very hand that grasp'd the sword,
To guard the throne of Britain's sacred lord!
While Cowardice at home from danger shrinks,
And on an empire's vitals eats and drinks.
To guard the throne of Britain's sacred lord!
439
And on an empire's vitals eats and drinks.
Heav'ns! let a spent and rambling shot
Touch but a prince's hat or coat,
Expanded are the hundred mouths of Fame;
Whilst braver thousands (but untitled wretches),
Swept by the sword, shall drop like paltry vetches,
Their sate unpitied, and unheard their name!
Touch but a prince's hat or coat,
Expanded are the hundred mouths of Fame;
Whilst braver thousands (but untitled wretches),
Swept by the sword, shall drop like paltry vetches,
Their sate unpitied, and unheard their name!
Poor soldier! is that stick to make a fire,
To warm thyself, and wife, and children dear?
Where is the goodly duke—of coals the 'squire,
Whose heart hath melted oft at Mis'ry's tear?
To warm thyself, and wife, and children dear?
Where is the goodly duke—of coals the 'squire,
Whose heart hath melted oft at Mis'ry's tear?
And, vet'ran! is that coat thy ragged all?
Sport of the saucy winds and soaking rain!
For this has Courage fac'd the flying ball?
For this has bleeding Brav'ry press'd the plain?
Sport of the saucy winds and soaking rain!
For this has Courage fac'd the flying ball?
For this has bleeding Brav'ry press'd the plain?
Where is the man who mocks the grin of Death,
Turns Bagshot pale, and frightens Hounslow Heath?
Turns Bagshot pale, and frightens Hounslow Heath?
Far off, alas! he bleeds in Brighton wars;
At least his horse's ribs so glorious bleed;
Where, nobly daring danger, death, and scars,
He flies and rallies on his bounding steed.
At least his horse's ribs so glorious bleed;
Where, nobly daring danger, death, and scars,
He flies and rallies on his bounding steed.
There too his Grace may wield his happy pen,
To prove that truly great and valiant men,
In idle duels never should engage,
But nurse for dread reviews their godlike rage.
To prove that truly great and valiant men,
In idle duels never should engage,
But nurse for dread reviews their godlike rage.
Far off, the hero, in his tent reclin'd,
Where high and mighty meditations suit,
On leather, leather, turns his lofty mind,
To make a cannon of an old jack-boot!
Where high and mighty meditations suit,
On leather, leather, turns his lofty mind,
To make a cannon of an old jack-boot!
Great geniuses, how loftily they jump!
Lord! what his rapture when he deigns to ride!
To feel beneath his Grace's gracious rump,
An eighteen pounder in his horse's hide!
Lord! what his rapture when he deigns to ride!
To feel beneath his Grace's gracious rump,
An eighteen pounder in his horse's hide!
440
There too, to barracks, fir'd in Freedom's cause,
And to Mount Wyse , his lyre the hero tunes;
There too the pow'r of doating Fancy draws
The Royal George to sight by air-balloons .
And to Mount Wyse , his lyre the hero tunes;
There too the pow'r of doating Fancy draws
The Royal George to sight by air-balloons .
This, Fanc'ys pow'r most earnestly can dare—
By Fancy's pow'r the royal ship may rise,
Borne by her bladders through the fields of air,
Just like a twig, by rooks, along the skies.
By Fancy's pow'r the royal ship may rise,
Borne by her bladders through the fields of air,
Just like a twig, by rooks, along the skies.
There too, at midnight drear, the hero schemes,
'Midst hum and snore of troops, for England's good;
Explores machines of death in happy dreams,
For hills of bones, and cataracts of blood.
'Midst hum and snore of troops, for England's good;
Explores machines of death in happy dreams,
For hills of bones, and cataracts of blood.
There, like King Richard, whom the furies rend,
He bustles in his sleep, and starts, and turns;
Now grasps the sword, and now a candle end,
That, blazing like himself, beside him burns.
He bustles in his sleep, and starts, and turns;
Now grasps the sword, and now a candle end,
That, blazing like himself, beside him burns.
Thus, 'mid his tent reclin'd, the godlike man
Vast schemes in slumber spins for England's sake;
‘And, lo!’ quoth Fame, ‘his godlike Grace can plan
As wisely in his sleep as when awake.’
Vast schemes in slumber spins for England's sake;
‘And, lo!’ quoth Fame, ‘his godlike Grace can plan
As wisely in his sleep as when awake.’
When with his host, Caligula came over,
No matter where—for rhime-sake call it Dover—
What were the trophies hence to Rome he bore?
Of paltry perriwinkles just a score!
No matter where—for rhime-sake call it Dover—
What were the trophies hence to Rome he bore?
Of paltry perriwinkles just a score!
But Richmond from his Brighton wars shall bring
Life to the state, and safety to a king!
Life to the state, and safety to a king!
Blest man! from Brighton field, with laurels crown'd,
He triumphs up the town without a wound ;
From Brighton wars, that witness'd not a corse!
Most lucky, losing neither man nor horse!
He triumphs up the town without a wound ;
441
Most lucky, losing neither man nor horse!
Thus then, O soldier, distance hides his Grace;
Thus is the sun, at times, of clouds the sport:
Yet soon the glories of his lordship's face
Shall, like a comet, blaze o'er Tilb'ry fort.
Thus is the sun, at times, of clouds the sport:
Yet soon the glories of his lordship's face
Shall, like a comet, blaze o'er Tilb'ry fort.
There shall the muse thy piteous tale unfold,
Gain thee a coat, and coals, to kill the cold;
Nay, fat shall swim upon thy meagre porridge:
The sympathizing duke her tale will hear,
And drop, at sound of coat and coals, a tear—
For Richmond's bounty equals Richmond's courage.
Gain thee a coat, and coals, to kill the cold;
Nay, fat shall swim upon thy meagre porridge:
The sympathizing duke her tale will hear,
And drop, at sound of coat and coals, a tear—
For Richmond's bounty equals Richmond's courage.
A place near Plymouth Dock, on which the national treasure has been so wisely expended for the innumerable conveniences of his brother Lennox.
The poet seems to have forgotten himself: his motto talks a different language: but the quidlibet audendi belongs as much to P. P. as to every other poet.
442
ODE TO CERTAIN FOREIGN SOLDIERS, IN CERTAIN PAY.
A complimentary Address to the Soldiers.— Wholesome Advice.—Peter draweth a natural and pathetic Picture of poor little Louis, reported to have been disgracefully put an Apprentice to a Cobbler.—The Insolence and Cruelty of his Master the Cobbler.—The Cobbler blasphemously abuseth Title.—The little Cobler King crieth.—Sensible Reflections on the Genius of Kings, with a Lick at the French Convention, and also at his own Stupidity.— Peter supplicateth for the little Louis.—Adviseth the Soldiers to a bold Action.—Inquireth of Soldiers who is to receive their Death-money. —Peter comforteth, and reconcileth them to Death.
Peter blesseth the King and the War, and curseth Reform, a Word in the Mouths of Mr. Pitt and the Duke of Richmond before they got into Office. —Peter adviseth more taxes, for a weighty political Reason, videlicit, on Account of the Impudence of a Nation, which always increaseth in an insufferable ratio with Riches.
443
Ye heroes, from your wives and turnips far,
Who wage so gloriously the flying war,
I give you joy of hand and leg endeavour;
And though ye sometimes chance to run away,
The generous General Murray's pleas'd to say,
‘'Tis very great indeed—'tis vastly clever.’
Who wage so gloriously the flying war,
I give you joy of hand and leg endeavour;
And though ye sometimes chance to run away,
The generous General Murray's pleas'd to say,
‘'Tis very great indeed—'tis vastly clever.’
O cut the Frenchmen's throats, the restless dogs!
O with the tiger's gripe upon them spring!
A pack of vile, degrading, horrid hogs;
To make a dirty cobbler of a king!
O with the tiger's gripe upon them spring!
A pack of vile, degrading, horrid hogs;
To make a dirty cobbler of a king!
See stool-propp'd majesty the leather spread!
Behold his pretty fingers wax the thread,
And now the leather on the lap-stone, hole;
Now puts his majesty the bristle in,
Now wide he throws his arms with milk-white skin,
And now he spits and hammers on the sole.
Behold his pretty fingers wax the thread,
And now the leather on the lap-stone, hole;
Now puts his majesty the bristle in,
Now wide he throws his arms with milk-white skin,
And now he spits and hammers on the sole.
And, lo! a rascal christen'd sans-culotte,
Leers on the window of his shed; and, lo!
He bawls (without of awe a single jot)
‘Come, Master King—quick, sirrah, mend my shoe.’
Leers on the window of his shed; and, lo!
He bawls (without of awe a single jot)
‘Come, Master King—quick, sirrah, mend my shoe.’
And see! the shoe the little monarch takes,
And, lo! at ev'ry stitch with fear he quakes—
Such is of Liberty the blessed fruit!
The name Licentiousness would better suit.
And, lo! at ev'ry stitch with fear he quakes—
Such is of Liberty the blessed fruit!
The name Licentiousness would better suit.
Behold Saint Crispin's picture, strange to tell,
The low-life cobbler's tutelary saint,
Of little Louis deck the dirty cell;
How diff'rent from the lofty Louvre's paint!
See! his hard master catches up the strap,
And lashes the young king's poor back and side—
How! flog his majesty!—for what mishap?
Ye gods! because he spoil'd a bit of hide!
The low-life cobbler's tutelary saint,
Of little Louis deck the dirty cell;
How diff'rent from the lofty Louvre's paint!
See! his hard master catches up the strap,
And lashes the young king's poor back and side—
How! flog his majesty!—for what mishap?
Ye gods! because he spoil'd a bit of hide!
Nay, hear the cruel tyrant thus exclaim:
‘Sirrah, there's nothing in a lofty name;
‘'Tis all mere nonsense, sound, and stuff together:
Don't think, because thy ancestors, so great,
Have to a paring brought a glorious state,
I give thee leave to spoil a piece of leather.’
‘Sirrah, there's nothing in a lofty name;
444
Don't think, because thy ancestors, so great,
Have to a paring brought a glorious state,
I give thee leave to spoil a piece of leather.’
And now behold the little tears, like peas,
Course o'er his tender cheek in silence down;
And now, with bitter grief, he feels and sees
The diff'rence 'twixt a stirrup and a crown.
Course o'er his tender cheek in silence down;
And now, with bitter grief, he feels and sees
The diff'rence 'twixt a stirrup and a crown.
Folly! to make a cobbler of a king!
'Tis such a piece of madness to my mind!
What could Convention hope from such a thing?
The race is fit for nothing—of the kind.
'Tis such a piece of madness to my mind!
What could Convention hope from such a thing?
The race is fit for nothing—of the kind.
Heav'ns! then how dull I am!—It was disgrace
France meant to put upon the royal race;
‘Aye, and disgrace upon the cobbler too,’
Most impudently roars the man of shoe.
France meant to put upon the royal race;
‘Aye, and disgrace upon the cobbler too,’
Most impudently roars the man of shoe.
O from the lap-stone set the monarch free!
O snatch the stirrup from his royal knee;
Pull the hand-leather off and seize the awl!
Seize too the hammer that his fingers gall!
O snatch the stirrup from his royal knee;
Pull the hand-leather off and seize the awl!
Seize too the hammer that his fingers gall!
Soldiers! to Paris rush—strike Robespierre,
Knock Danton down, and crucify Barrere;
Crush the vile egg which from the serpent springs,
To dart th' envenom'd fang at sacred kings.
Knock Danton down, and crucify Barrere;
Crush the vile egg which from the serpent springs,
To dart th' envenom'd fang at sacred kings.
O soldiers, whose your skin-money, I pray?
At thirty guineas each—how dear your hides!
Much should I like the contract, let me say:
Thrice lucky rogue, that o'er your lives presides!
At thirty guineas each—how dear your hides!
Much should I like the contract, let me say:
Thrice lucky rogue, that o'er your lives presides!
Then pray don't grumble, sirs, should ye be shot;
That is to say, if ye desire to thrive;
For know, if death should prove your lucky lot,
You're worth a vast deal more than when alive.
That is to say, if ye desire to thrive;
For know, if death should prove your lucky lot,
You're worth a vast deal more than when alive.
445
POSTSCRIPT.
NOW God bless our good king, and this good war,
And d*mn that wicked word we call Reform;
Breeding in Britain so much horrid jar,
So witch-like, conj'ring up a dangerous storm!
And d*mn that wicked word we call Reform;
Breeding in Britain so much horrid jar,
So witch-like, conj'ring up a dangerous storm!
Yet in the mouths of Pitt and Richmond's lord,
Once what a sweet and inoffensive word!
Thus proving the delightful proverb true,
‘What's meat to me, may poison be to you.’
Once what a sweet and inoffensive word!
Thus proving the delightful proverb true,
‘What's meat to me, may poison be to you.’
And now God bless once more good Mister Pitt,
Who for invention beats nineteen in twenty;
And may this gentleman's most ready wit
Supply the nation all with taxes plenty;
And as the kingdom has unclench'd its fist,
Pick out a few odd pence for civil list.
Who for invention beats nineteen in twenty;
And may this gentleman's most ready wit
Supply the nation all with taxes plenty;
And as the kingdom has unclench'd its fist,
Pick out a few odd pence for civil list.
We are too rich—Dame Fortune grows too saucy,
Wealth is inclin'd to be confounded brassy.
Wealth is inclin'd to be confounded brassy.
War is a wholesome blister for the back;
Draining away the humours all so gross;
Else would the empire be of guts a sack—
A Falstaff—woolsack—an unwieldy joss.
Draining away the humours all so gross;
Else would the empire be of guts a sack—
A Falstaff—woolsack—an unwieldy joss.
War yieldeth such rare spirits to a nation!
Giving the blood so brisk a circulation!
A kingdom, and a poet, and a cat,
Should never, never, never be too fat.
Giving the blood so brisk a circulation!
A kingdom, and a poet, and a cat,
Should never, never, never be too fat.
446
ODE.
[A cat who from a window peepeth out]
Cats and Princes very much alike.
A cat who from a window peepeth out,
‘Is very like a cat who peepeth in’—
Thus it is said—and he who is no lout,
Knoweth that cats are unto men akin.
‘Is very like a cat who peepeth in’—
Thus it is said—and he who is no lout,
Knoweth that cats are unto men akin.
For princes looking up towards a throne,
Are very much like princes looking down;
That is, love pow'r, love wealth, have great propensities,
Sublimely dealing ever in immensities.
Are very much like princes looking down;
That is, love pow'r, love wealth, have great propensities,
Sublimely dealing ever in immensities.
Princes have clawing passions too, I ween—
Yes, many a foreign king and foreign queen;
With stomachs wide too as a whale's, or wider:
The subject and a king, in foreign land,
I often have been giv'n to understand,
Are a poor jack-ass and his rider.
Yes, many a foreign king and foreign queen;
With stomachs wide too as a whale's, or wider:
The subject and a king, in foreign land,
I often have been giv'n to understand,
Are a poor jack-ass and his rider.
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ODE TO TYRANTS.
Peter, with his poetical Broomstick, belaboureth foreign Tyrants.—Taketh the Part of the oppressed Poor.—Asketh Tyrants knotty and puzzling Questions.—Giveth a Speech of Cato.—Peter seriously informeth them that they are not like the Lord.—Peter taketh a Survey of the Furniture of their Heads.—Peter solemnly declareth that the Million doth not like to be ridden. —Giveth an insolent Speech of Tyrants, and calleth them Highwaymen.—The Taylor and the Satin Breeches.—The Shoemaker and the Shoes.—Peter lamenteth that there should be some who think it a Sin to resist Tyrants.— Adviseth them to read Æsop's Fables.
Who
, and what are ye, sceptred bullies?—speak,
That millions to your will must bow the neck,
And, ox-like, meanly take the galling yoke?
Philosophers your ignorance despise;
Ev'n Folly, laughing, lifts her maudlin eyes,
And freely on your wisdoms cracks her joke.
That millions to your will must bow the neck,
And, ox-like, meanly take the galling yoke?
Philosophers your ignorance despise;
Ev'n Folly, laughing, lifts her maudlin eyes,
And freely on your wisdoms cracks her joke.
How dare ye on the men of labour tread,
Whose honest toils supply your mouths with bread;
Who, groaning, sweating, like so many hacks,
Work you the very clothes upon your backs?
Clothes of calamity, I fear,
That hold in ev'ry stitch a tear.
Whose honest toils supply your mouths with bread;
Who, groaning, sweating, like so many hacks,
Work you the very clothes upon your backs?
Clothes of calamity, I fear,
That hold in ev'ry stitch a tear.
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Who sent you?—Not the Lord who rules on high,
Sent you to man on purpose from the sky,
Because of wisdom it is not a proof:
Show your credentials, sirs:—if ye refuse,
Terrific gentlemen, our smiles excuse,
Belief most certainly will keep aloof.
Sent you to man on purpose from the sky,
Because of wisdom it is not a proof:
Show your credentials, sirs:—if ye refuse,
Terrific gentlemen, our smiles excuse,
Belief most certainly will keep aloof.
Old virtuous rugged Cato, on a day,
Thus to the Soothsayers was heard to say,
‘Augurs! by all the gods it is a shame,
To gull the mole-ey'd million at this rate;
Making of gaping blockheads such a game,
Pretending to be hand and glove with Fate!
Thus to the Soothsayers was heard to say,
‘Augurs! by all the gods it is a shame,
To gull the mole-ey'd million at this rate;
Making of gaping blockheads such a game,
Pretending to be hand and glove with Fate!
‘On guts and garbage when ye meet,
To carry on the holy cheat,
How is it ye preserve that solemn grace,
Nor burst with laughter in each other's face?’
To carry on the holy cheat,
How is it ye preserve that solemn grace,
Nor burst with laughter in each other's face?’
Thus to our courtiers, sirs, might I exclaim—
‘In Wonder's name,
How can ye meanly grov'ling bow the head
To pieces of gilt gingerbread?
Fetch, carry, fawn, kneel, flatter, crawl, tell lies,
To please the creature that ye should despise?’
‘In Wonder's name,
How can ye meanly grov'ling bow the head
To pieces of gilt gingerbread?
Fetch, carry, fawn, kneel, flatter, crawl, tell lies,
To please the creature that ye should despise?’
Tyrants, with all your wonderful dominion,
Ye ar'n't a whit like God, in my opinion;
Though you think otherwise, I do presume:
Hot to the marrow with the ruling lust,
Fancying your crouching subjects so much dust,
Your lofty selves the mighty sweeping broom.
Ye ar'n't a whit like God, in my opinion;
Though you think otherwise, I do presume:
Hot to the marrow with the ruling lust,
Fancying your crouching subjects so much dust,
Your lofty selves the mighty sweeping broom.
Open the warehouses of all your brains;
Come, sirs, turn out—let's see what each contains:
Heav'ns, how ridiculous! what motley stuff!
Shut, quickly shut again the brazen doors;
Too much of balderdash the eye explores;
Yes, shut them, shut them, we have seen enough.
Are these the beings to bestride a world?
To such sad beasts, has God his creatures hurl'd?
Come, sirs, turn out—let's see what each contains:
Heav'ns, how ridiculous! what motley stuff!
Shut, quickly shut again the brazen doors;
Too much of balderdash the eye explores;
Yes, shut them, shut them, we have seen enough.
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To such sad beasts, has God his creatures hurl'd?
Men want not tyrants—overbearing knaves;
Despots that rule a realm of slaves;
Proud to be gaz'd at by a reptile race:
Charm'd with the music of their clanking chains,
Pleas'd with the fog of state that clouds their brains,
Who cry, with all the impudence of face,
Despots that rule a realm of slaves;
Proud to be gaz'd at by a reptile race:
Charm'd with the music of their clanking chains,
Pleas'd with the fog of state that clouds their brains,
Who cry, with all the impudence of face,
‘Behold your gods! down, rascals, on your knees!
Your money, miscreants—quick, no words, no strife;
Your lands too, scoundrels, vermin, lice, bugs, fleas;
And thank our mercy that allows you life!’
Your money, miscreants—quick, no words, no strife;
Your lands too, scoundrels, vermin, lice, bugs, fleas;
And thank our mercy that allows you life!’
Thus speak the highwaymen in purple pride,
On Slavery's poor gall'd back so wont to ride.
On Slavery's poor gall'd back so wont to ride.
Who would not laugh to see a tailor bow
Submissive to a pair of satin breeches?
Saying, ‘O breeches, all men must allow
There's something in your aspect that bewitches!
Submissive to a pair of satin breeches?
Saying, ‘O breeches, all men must allow
There's something in your aspect that bewitches!
‘Let me admire you, breeches, crown'd with glory;
And though I made you, let me still adore ye:
Though a rump's humble servant, form'd for need,
To keep it warm, yet, Lord! you are so fine,
I cannot think you are my work indeed—
Though merely mortal, lo! ye seem divine!’
Who would not quick exclaim, ‘The tailor's mad?’
Yet tyrant-adoration is as bad.
And though I made you, let me still adore ye:
Though a rump's humble servant, form'd for need,
To keep it warm, yet, Lord! you are so fine,
I cannot think you are my work indeed—
Though merely mortal, lo! ye seem divine!’
Who would not quick exclaim, ‘The tailor's mad?’
Yet tyrant-adoration is as bad.
See! Crispin makes a pair of handsome shoes,
Silk and bespangled, such as ladies use—
Suppose the shoes so proud, upon each heel,
Perk it in Crispin's face, with saucy pride,
And all the meanness of his trade deride,
And all the state of self-importance feel:
Silk and bespangled, such as ladies use—
Suppose the shoes so proud, upon each heel,
Perk it in Crispin's face, with saucy pride,
And all the meanness of his trade deride,
And all the state of self-importance feel:
Tell him the distance between them and him,
Crispin would quickly cry, ‘A pretty whim!
Crispin would quickly cry, ‘A pretty whim!
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Confound your little bodies, though so fine,
Is not the silk and spangles that ye boast
Put on you at my proper cost?
Whatever's on ye, is it not all mine?
Did not I put you thus together, pray?’
What could the simple shoes in answer say?
Is not the silk and spangles that ye boast
Put on you at my proper cost?
Whatever's on ye, is it not all mine?
Did not I put you thus together, pray?’
What could the simple shoes in answer say?
There too are some (thank Heav'n they do not swarm)
Who deem it foul to stay a tyrant's arm,
That falls with fate upon their humble skulls:
Some for a despot's rod have heav'd the sigh!
Let such on wiser Æsop cast an eye,
And read the fable of the Frogs, the fools.
Who deem it foul to stay a tyrant's arm,
That falls with fate upon their humble skulls:
Some for a despot's rod have heav'd the sigh!
Let such on wiser Æsop cast an eye,
And read the fable of the Frogs, the fools.
THE FROGS AND JUPITER.
THE frogs so happy, 'midst their peaceful pond,
Of emp'rors grew at once extremely fond;
Yes, yes, an emp'ror was a glorious thing;
Each really took it in his addle pate,
'Twould be so charming to exchange their state!
An emp'ror would such heaps of blisses bring!
Of emp'rors grew at once extremely fond;
Yes, yes, an emp'ror was a glorious thing;
Each really took it in his addle pate,
'Twould be so charming to exchange their state!
An emp'ror would such heaps of blisses bring!
Sudden out hopp'd the nation on the grass,
Frog-man and yellow wife, and youth and lass,
A numerous tribe, to knuckle down to Jove,
And pray the gods to send an emp'ror down,
'Twas such a pretty thing, th' imperial crown!
So form'd their pleasures, honours, to improve.
Frog-man and yellow wife, and youth and lass,
A numerous tribe, to knuckle down to Jove,
And pray the gods to send an emp'ror down,
'Twas such a pretty thing, th' imperial crown!
So form'd their pleasures, honours, to improve.
Forth from his old blue weather-box, the skies,
Jove briskly stepp'd, with two wide-wond'ring eyes:
‘Mynheers,’ quoth Jove, ‘if ye are wise, be quiet;
Know when you're happy’—but he preach'd in vain;
They made the most abominable riot;
‘An emp'ror, emp'ror, yes, we must obtain.’
Jove briskly stepp'd, with two wide-wond'ring eyes:
‘Mynheers,’ quoth Jove, ‘if ye are wise, be quiet;
Know when you're happy’—but he preach'd in vain;
They made the most abominable riot;
‘An emp'ror, emp'ror, yes, we must obtain.’
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‘Well, take one,’ cry'd the god, and down he swopp'd
A monstrous piece of wood, from whence he chopp'd
Kings for the gentlefolks of ancient days:
Stunn'd at the sound, the frogs all shook with dread;
Like dabchicks, under water push'd each head,
Afraid a single nose so pale to raise.
A monstrous piece of wood, from whence he chopp'd
Kings for the gentlefolks of ancient days:
Stunn'd at the sound, the frogs all shook with dread;
Like dabchicks, under water push'd each head,
Afraid a single nose so pale to raise.
At length one stole a peep, and then a second,
Who, slily winking to a third frog, beckon'd;
And so on, till they all obtain'd a peep;
Now nearer, nearer edging on they drew,
And finding nothing terrible, nor new,
Bold on his majesty began to leap:
Who, slily winking to a third frog, beckon'd;
And so on, till they all obtain'd a peep;
Now nearer, nearer edging on they drew,
And finding nothing terrible, nor new,
Bold on his majesty began to leap:
Such hopping this way, that way, off and on!
Such croaking, laughing, ridiculing, fun!
Such croaking, laughing, ridiculing, fun!
In short, so very shameful were they grown;
So much of grace and manners did they lack,
One little villain saucily squat down,
And, with a grin, defil'd the royal back.
So much of grace and manners did they lack,
One little villain saucily squat down,
And, with a grin, defil'd the royal back.
Now, unto Jove they, kneeling, pray'd again,
‘O Jupiter, this is so sad a beast,
So dull a monarch—so devoid of brain!
Give us a king of spirit, Jove, at least.’
‘O Jupiter, this is so sad a beast,
So dull a monarch—so devoid of brain!
Give us a king of spirit, Jove, at least.’
The god comply'd, and sent them emp'ror Stork,
Who with his loving subjects went to work;
Chas'd the poor sprawling imps from pool to pool,
Resolv'd to get a handsome belly full.
Who with his loving subjects went to work;
Chas'd the poor sprawling imps from pool to pool,
Resolv'd to get a handsome belly full.
Now gasping, wedg'd within his iron beak,
Did wriggling scores most lamentably squeak:
Bold push'd the emp'ror on, with stride so noble,
Bolting his subjects with majestic gobble.
Did wriggling scores most lamentably squeak:
Bold push'd the emp'ror on, with stride so noble,
Bolting his subjects with majestic gobble.
452
Again the noble croaking tribe began to pray,
'Midst hoppings, scramblings, murder, and dismay:
'Midst hoppings, scramblings, murder, and dismay:
‘O save us, Jove, from this inhuman Turk!
O save us from this imp of Hell!’
‘Mynheers,’ quoth Jove, ‘pray keep your emp'ror Stork—
Fools never know when they are well.’
O save us from this imp of Hell!’
‘Mynheers,’ quoth Jove, ‘pray keep your emp'ror Stork—
Fools never know when they are well.’
A term to be found in the Hampshire Dictionary, implying a rapid deglutition of bacon, without the sober ceremony of mastication. It is, moreover, to be observed, that Hampshire servants, who are bacon-bolters, have always less wages than bacon-chewers.
453
ODE.
[Emp'rors, and popes, and nabobs, mighty things]
Peter giveth a gentle Trimming to the Jackets of foreign Potentates; and a Pair of pretty Fables, by way of Looking-glasses, for their Most High Haughtinesses.
Emp'rors, and popes, and nabobs, mighty things,
I think, too, we may take in foreign kings,
Too often deem their humble makers, slaves;
Now such high folk are either fools or knaves,
Or both together probably—a case
That happens frequently amongst the race.
Methinks now, this is scandalous—'tis hateful—
Wicked, and, what is full as bad, ungrateful.
I think, too, we may take in foreign kings,
Too often deem their humble makers, slaves;
Now such high folk are either fools or knaves,
Or both together probably—a case
That happens frequently amongst the race.
Methinks now, this is scandalous—'tis hateful—
Wicked, and, what is full as bad, ungrateful.
The great of many a continent and isle,
Enough to make the sourest cynic smile,
Or, as the proverb says, ‘make a dog laugh,’
Think honours from themselves arise alone;
Thus are their makers at a distance thrown,
Consider'd as mere mob, mere dirt, mere chaff.
Enough to make the sourest cynic smile,
Or, as the proverb says, ‘make a dog laugh,’
Think honours from themselves arise alone;
Thus are their makers at a distance thrown,
Consider'd as mere mob, mere dirt, mere chaff.
The following Fables then will let them know,
What to us riffraff of the world they owe.
What to us riffraff of the world they owe.
THE DIAMOND PIN AND THE FARTHING CANDLE; A FABLE.
UPON a lady's toilet, full of lustre,
A di'mond pin one night began to bluster;
Full of conceit, like some young flirting girl,
Her senses lost in Vanity's wild whirl:
A di'mond pin one night began to bluster;
Full of conceit, like some young flirting girl,
Her senses lost in Vanity's wild whirl:
Highly disgusted at a farthing candle,
Left by the lady of the broom,
Nam'd Susan, slipp'd into another room,
Something of consequence to handle—
‘You nasty tallow thing,’ exclaim'd Miss Pin,
‘Pray keep your distance—don't stay here, and wink;
I loathe ye—you and all your greasy kin—
Good heav'ns! how horribly you look and stink!’
Left by the lady of the broom,
Nam'd Susan, slipp'd into another room,
Something of consequence to handle—
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‘Pray keep your distance—don't stay here, and wink;
I loathe ye—you and all your greasy kin—
Good heav'ns! how horribly you look and stink!’
‘Good Lord! Miss Pin,’ Miss Candle quick reply'd,
‘Soften a little that ungrateful pride:
You shine indeed—to this I must agree:
Yes, Miss, you make a very pretty blaze;
But let me tell ye, that your wondrous rays
Owe all their boasted brilliancy to me.’
‘Soften a little that ungrateful pride:
You shine indeed—to this I must agree:
Yes, Miss, you make a very pretty blaze;
But let me tell ye, that your wondrous rays
Owe all their boasted brilliancy to me.’
‘How! Madam Impudence!’ rejoin'd Miss Pin,
First with a frown, and then a scornful grin;
‘I should not, sure, have dreamt of that, Miss Fat!’
First with a frown, and then a scornful grin;
‘I should not, sure, have dreamt of that, Miss Fat!’
‘Susan,’ Miss Candle bawl'd, ‘Susan, come here!
Such saucy language I'll no longer bear:
Susan, come, satisfy the lady's doubt—
Take me away, I say, or blow me out.’
Such saucy language I'll no longer bear:
Susan, come, satisfy the lady's doubt—
Take me away, I say, or blow me out.’
Susan, who, list'ning, heard the great dispute,
By no means could refuse Miss Candle's suit;
So into darkness Susan blew her beam:
‘Now,’ with a sharp sarcastic sneer,
‘Now,’ quoth Miss Candle, ‘now, my dear,
Where is of radiance now your boasted stream?
By no means could refuse Miss Candle's suit;
So into darkness Susan blew her beam:
‘Now,’ with a sharp sarcastic sneer,
‘Now,’ quoth Miss Candle, ‘now, my dear,
Where is of radiance now your boasted stream?
‘Where are your keen and fascinating rays,
Ten thousand of them—such a mighty blaze?’
Miss Di'mond star'd, and star'd, and star'd again,
To find departed radiance, but in vain.
Ten thousand of them—such a mighty blaze?’
Miss Di'mond star'd, and star'd, and star'd again,
To find departed radiance, but in vain.
Quite vanish'd! not a single ray display'd!
Each sparkle swallow'd in the depth of shade!
Each sparkle swallow'd in the depth of shade!
Alter'd, quite alter'd, sadly disappointed,
The bones of her high pride disjointed,
‘I fear,’ quoth Pin, ‘I much mistake my nature.’
‘True,’ answer'd Candle, ‘true, my dear Miss Pin;
Lift not, in future, quite so high your chin,
But show some rev'rence for your blaze-creator.’
The bones of her high pride disjointed,
‘I fear,’ quoth Pin, ‘I much mistake my nature.’
‘True,’ answer'd Candle, ‘true, my dear Miss Pin;
Lift not, in future, quite so high your chin,
But show some rev'rence for your blaze-creator.’
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THE SUN AND THE PEACOCK;
A FABLE.
A PEACOCK, mounted on a barn one day,
Blest with a quantum sufficit of pride,
All consequence amid the solar ray,
Spread with a strut his circling plumage wide.
Blest with a quantum sufficit of pride,
All consequence amid the solar ray,
Spread with a strut his circling plumage wide.
‘Good morrow,’ quoth the coxcomb, ‘Master Sun;
Your brassy face has greatly been admir'd—
Now pray, Sol, answer me—I'm not in fun—
What is there in it to be so desir'd?
If I have any eyes to see,
And, that I have, is clear to me,
My tail possesses far more splendid grace,
By far more beauty than your worship's face.’
Your brassy face has greatly been admir'd—
Now pray, Sol, answer me—I'm not in fun—
What is there in it to be so desir'd?
If I have any eyes to see,
And, that I have, is clear to me,
My tail possesses far more splendid grace,
By far more beauty than your worship's face.’
The sun look'd down with smiles upon the fowl,
Supposing it at first an owl:
And thus with gravity reply'd, ‘Sir, know,
That though unluckily my worship's face
Seems far beneath your tail in splendid grace,
Still to my face that glitt'ring tail you owe.’
Supposing it at first an owl:
And thus with gravity reply'd, ‘Sir, know,
That though unluckily my worship's face
Seems far beneath your tail in splendid grace,
Still to my face that glitt'ring tail you owe.’
‘Poh!’ quoth the peacock, ‘Master Sun,
Your highness loves a bit of fun.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ answer'd Sol again—
‘And, if you please, I'll condescend to show
How much to me you ev'ry moment owe
The boasted beauties of your waving train.’
Your highness loves a bit of fun.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ answer'd Sol again—
‘And, if you please, I'll condescend to show
How much to me you ev'ry moment owe
The boasted beauties of your waving train.’
‘Agreed, with all my soul,’ the bird reply'd,
In all the full-blown insolence of pride;
‘To credit such a tale I'm not the noddy:
Prove that the glorious plumage I display
Owes all its happy colours to thy ray,
D*m'me I'll tear my feathers from my body.’
In all the full-blown insolence of pride;
‘To credit such a tale I'm not the noddy:
Prove that the glorious plumage I display
Owes all its happy colours to thy ray,
D*m'me I'll tear my feathers from my body.’
The challeng'd Sun in clouds withdrew
His flaming beams from ev'ry view,
And o'er the world a depth of darkness spread:
The bats their churches left, to wing the air;
The cocks and hens and cows began to stare,
And sulky went all supperless to bed;
For not an almanack had op'd its lips
About so very wondrous an eclipse.
His flaming beams from ev'ry view,
And o'er the world a depth of darkness spread:
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The cocks and hens and cows began to stare,
And sulky went all supperless to bed;
For not an almanack had op'd its lips
About so very wondrous an eclipse.
The Peacock too, amongst the rest
Of marv'ling fowl and staring beast,
Turn'd to his feathers with some doubt,
Amaz'd to find his hundred eyes put out;
Indeed all nature did appear as black
As if old Sol had popp'd into a sack.
Of marv'ling fowl and staring beast,
Turn'd to his feathers with some doubt,
Amaz'd to find his hundred eyes put out;
Indeed all nature did appear as black
As if old Sol had popp'd into a sack.
Pleas'd with his triumph, from a cloud,
The Sun, still hiding, call'd aloud,
‘Well! can ye merit to my face allow?
What's now your colour? where your hundred eyes?
The mingled radiance of a thousand dies;
Speak, Master Peacock, what's your colour now?’
The Sun, still hiding, call'd aloud,
‘Well! can ye merit to my face allow?
What's now your colour? where your hundred eyes?
The mingled radiance of a thousand dies;
Speak, Master Peacock, what's your colour now?’
‘What colour!’ quoth the bird, as much asham'd
As courtiers high by loss of office tam'd—
‘To own the truth, much-injur'd Phœbus, know,
I'm not one atom better than a crow.
I see my folly—pity my poor train;
And let thy goodness bid it shine again.’
As courtiers high by loss of office tam'd—
‘To own the truth, much-injur'd Phœbus, know,
I'm not one atom better than a crow.
I see my folly—pity my poor train;
And let thy goodness bid it shine again.’
Tyrants of eastern realms, whose subjects' noses,
Like a smith's vice, your iron pow'r encloses;
Who treat your people just like dogs or swine;
The meaning of my tale, can ye divine?
If not, go try to find it, I beseech ye,
And do not let your angry subjects teach ye.
Like a smith's vice, your iron pow'r encloses;
Who treat your people just like dogs or swine;
The meaning of my tale, can ye divine?
If not, go try to find it, I beseech ye,
And do not let your angry subjects teach ye.
END OF VOL. II.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |