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

Shame on thee, Pye! to Cæsar tune the string;
Berhime his route, and Weymouth wonders sing:
Saddle thy Pegasus at once—ride post:
Lo, ere thou start'st, a thousand things are lost.

TO J. PYE, ESQ.

SIR,

I allow you virtues, I allow you literary talents; but I will not subscribe to your indolence: one little solitary annual ode is not sufficient for a great king. Whatever things are done, whatever things are said, nay, whatever things are conceived by mighty potentates, are treasure for the page of history. Blush, my friend, that a volunteer bard should run off with the merit of recording the wonderful actions and sapient sayings of royalty! As soon as the Mill of Charity was erected in Windsor Park,

Lo! at the deed, the muse caught fire,
And swell'd, with praise, the sacred lyre,
Sweet lass! she could not for her soul sit still.
Imagination, on the watch,
Op'd, for the swelling flood, the hatch;
And, lo! to work, alertly, went her mill.

As soon as the royal journey to Weymouth was announced, the same loyal muse

Turn'd her brain's pockets inside out,
For poetry, to praise the rout.

No sooner was the noble elephant from Arcot presented to our beloved queen, and most œconomically

and most generously returned on the nabob's hands, on account of his appetite, but the same muse

Began a tender melancholy air;
Sung how he trudg'd, poor beast, to Peckham fair,
And Saint Bartholomew's, to help defray
His sad expenses on the wat'ry way.

No sooner was a boat ordered by the omnipotent, all-feeling, all-honest, all-delicate, all-constitutional lords of the ------ on board Captain Orack's ship, the Phœnix (even before she came to her moorings) for the other presents (fortunately without stomachs!) from the same knowing nabob to her most excellent m---y, not to Mr. Pitt, and his Grace of Portland (for ministers are ciphers now-a-days), but lo, the muse,

Attentive ever to great princes,
To muslins tun'd her harp, and chintzes;
And prophesy'd of ev'ry shawl,
That Schw---g would sell them all.

A circumstance that actually took place; making we presume, a decent return—the original cost, in India, exceeding ten thousand pounds!!!

In future, then, my friend Pye,

Let no man say I hate our kings and queens,
Princes and drawing-rooms and levee-scenes;
Despise the bows and curtsies, whisper'd talk:
I love the mumm'ry from my very soul:
Daily I spread its fame from pole to pole—
What glorious quarry for the muse's hawk!
Ask if the man whose heart the chase adores,
Wishes annihilation to wild boars,

Or wolves so hungry.—‘No,’ the sportsman cries—
‘Long live wild boars and wolves! God bless their eyes!’
May kings exist—and trifle pig with kings!
The muse desireth not more precious things—
Such sweet mock-grandeur!—so sublimely garish?
Let's have no Washingtons: did such appear,
The muse and I had ev'ry thing to fear—
Soon forc'd to ask a pittance of the parish.
Such want no praise—in native virtue strong:
'Tis folly, folly, feeds the poet's song.

THE ROYAL TOUR,

OR WEYMOUTH AMUSEMENTS.

PROËMIUM.

Great is of hair-powder the sale —
Dundas and Pitt have both turn'd pale;
Yet courtiers cry aloud its want of merit.
Courtiers have try'd with all their spite
To sink it in Oblivion's night—
My friend, the Public, keeps it up with spirit.

How often we have seen a bullying cloud
Attack the sun, and quarrel too aloud;
Spit, thunder, lighten, frighten the two poles,
Blocking up ev'ry avenue for peeping;
On this side now, and now on that side creeping;
A sort of dirty malkin stopping holes!

Sometimes the worried glorious god of day
Insists upon a view, and shows an eye;
Just as a manager, when some sad play
Is taken ill, and very like to die,

Kens through the curtain on the critic nation,
All hissing, clatt'ring, howling out damnation.

Thus Envy, the vile hag, attacks my rhimes,
Swearing they shall not peep on distant times;
But violent indeed will be the tussel;
I deem myself, indeed, a tuneful whale:
She swears I'm not upon so large a scale;
Rather a wrinkle, limpet, paltry muscle,

Clinging to heavy rocks, or wooden things,
Meaning my loyalty, perchance, to kings.
The public seems to like my brats,
Begot, indeed, with little pain—
Whether it turbot gives, or sprats,
Behold another to maintain!
Thus, then, I cast it on that sea the town:
If true, it swims; if spurious, let it drown.

My ingenious poem so called; not Mr. Pitt's ingenious tax on that subject, which, we are well informed, succeeds as miserably in produce, as reputation.

See! Cæsar's off! the dust around him hovers,
And, gathering, lo, the King of Glory covers!
The royal hubbub fills both eye and ear,
And wide-mouth'd wonder marks the wild career.
How like his golden brother of the sky,
When nature thunders, and the storm is high;
Now in, now out of clouds, behind, before,
Who rolls amid the elemental roar.
Heav'ns! with what ardour thro' the lanes he drives,
The country trembling for its tenants' lives!
Squat on his speckled haunches gapes the toad,
And frogs affrighted hop along the road;
The hares astonish'd to their terrors yield,
Cock their long ears, and scud from field to field;
The owl, loud hooting, from his ivy rushes;
And sparrows, chatt'ring, flutter from the bushes:
Old women (call'd ‘a pack of blinking b---s),’
Dash'd by the thund'ring light-horse into ditches,
Scrambling and howling, with post---rs pointed,
Sad picture! plump against the Lord's Anointed.
Dogs bark, pigs grunt, the flying turkeys gobble;
Fowls cackle; screaming geese, with stretch'd wing, hobble;
Dire death his horses' hoofs to ducklings deal,
And goslings gape beneath the burning wheel!

Thus the great Æol, when he rushes forth,
With all his winds, east, west, and south, and north;
Flutter the leaves of trees, with woful fright,
Shook by his rage, and bullied by his might!
Straws from the lanes dispers'd, and whirl'd in air,
The blustering wonders of his mouth declare.
Heav'd from their deep foundations, with dread sound
Barns and old houses thunder to the ground,
And bowing oaks, in ages rooted strong,
Roar through their branches as he sweeps along!
George breakfasts on the road, gulps tea, bolts toast;
Jokes with the waiter, witty with the host;
Runs to the garden with his morning dues;
Makes mouths at Cloacina's; reads the news.
Now mad for fruit, he scours the garden round;
Knocks every apple that he spies, to ground;
Loads ev'ry royal pocket, seeks his chaise;
Plumps in, and fills the village with amaze!

He's off again—he smokes along the road!
Pursue him, Pye—pursue him with an ode:
And yet a pastoral might better please;
That talks of sheep, and hay, and beans and peas;
Of trees cut down , that Richmond's lawn adorn,
To gain the pittance of a peck of corn.
He reaches Weymouth—treads the Esplanade—
Hark, hark, the jingling bells! the cannonade!
Drums beat, the hurdigurdies grind the air;
Dogs, cats, old women, all upon the stare:
All Weymouth gapes with wonder—hark! huzzas!
The roaring welcome of a thousand jaws!
O Pye, shalt thou, Apollo's fav'rite son,
In loyalty by Peter be outdone?
How oft I bear thy master on my back,
Without one thimbleful of cheering sack;

While thou (not drunk, I hope), O bard divine,
Oft wett'st thy whistle with the muse's wine!
O haste where prostrate courtiers monarchs greet,
Like cats that seek the sunshine of the street;
Where Chesterfield, the lively spaniel, springs,
Runs, leaps, and makes rare merriment for kings;
Where sharp Macmanus, and sly Jealous, tread,
To guard from treach'ry's blow the royal head ;
Where Nunn and Barber , silent as the mouse,
Steal, nightly, certain goods to Glo'ster House.
O say, shall Cæsar in rare presents thrive;
Buy cheaper, too, than any man alive;
Go cheaper in excursions on the water,
And laureat Pye know nothing of the matter!
Acts that should bid his poet's bosom flame,
And make his spendthrift subjects blush with shame!
What tho' Tom Warton laugh'd at kings and queens,
And, grinning, ey'd them just as state machines;
Much better pleas'd (so sick of royal life)
To celebrate 'Squire Punch and Punch's wife?
I grant thee deep in Attic, Latian lore;
Yet learn the province of the muse of yore:
The bards of ancient times (so hist'ry sings)
Eat, drank, and danc'd, and slept with mighty kings,

Who courted, reverenc'd, lov'd the tuneful throng,
And deem'd their deeds ennobled by a song.

Lo, Pitt arrives! alas, with lantern face!
‘What, hæ, Pitt, hæ—what, Pitt, hæ, more disgrace?’
‘Ah, sire, bad news! a second dire defeat!
Vendee undone, and all the Chouans beat!’
‘Hæ, hæ, what, what?—beat, beat?—what, beat agen?
Well, well, more money—raise more men, more men.
But mind, Pitt, hæ—mind, huddle up the news;
Coin something, and the growling land amuse:
Make all the sans-culottes to Paris caper,
And Rose shall print the vict'ry in his paper.
Let's hear no more, no more of Cornish tales—
I sha'n't refund a guinea, Pitt, to Wales:
I can't afford it, no—I can't afford:
Wales cost a deal in pocket-cash and board.

‘Pitt, Pitt, there's Frost, my bailiff Frost—see, see!
Well, Pitt, go back, go back again—b'ye, b'ye:
Keep London still—no matter how they carp—
Well, well, go back, and bid Dundas look sharp.
Must not lose France—no, France must wear a crown:
If France won't swallow, ram a monarch down.
Some crowns are scarce worth sixpences—hæ, Pitt?’—
The premier smil'd, and left the royal wit.

Now Frost approaches—‘Well, Frost, well, Frost, pray,
How, how went sheep a score?—how corn and hay?’

‘An't please your majesty, a charming price:
Corn very soon will be as dear as spice.’

‘Thank God! but, say, say, do the poor complain?
Hæ, hæ, will wheat be sixpence, Frost, a grain?’

‘I hope not, sire; for great were then my fears,
That Windsor would be pull'd about our ears.’

‘Frost, Frost, no politics—no, no, Frost, no:
You, you talk politics! oho, oho!

Windsor come down about our ears! what, what?
D'ye think, hæ, hæ, that I'm afraid of that?
What, what are soldiers good for, but obey?
Macmanus, Townsend, Jealous, hæ, hæ, hæ?
Pull Windsor down? hæ, what?—a pretty job!
Windsor be pull'd to pieces by the mob!
Talk, talk of farming—that's your fort, d'ye see;
And, mind, mind, politics belong to me.
Go back, go back, and watch the Windsor chaps;
Count all the poultry: set, set well the traps.

‘See, see! see! Stacie —here, here, Stacie, here—
Going to market, Stacie?—dear, dear, dear!
I get all my provision by the mail—
Hæ, money plenty, Stacie? don't fear jail.
Rooms, rooms all full? hæ, hæ, no beds to spare?
What, what! give trav'lers, hæ, good fare, good fare?
Good sign, good sign, to have no empty beds!
Shows, shows that people like to see crown'd heads.’

The mail arrives ! hark! hark! the cheerful horn,
To majesty announcing oil and corn;
Turnips and cabbages, and soap and candles;
And, lo, each article great Cæsar handles!
Bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar, and mustard,
Small beer, and bacon, apple-pie, and custard:
All, all, from Windsor greets his frugal grace,
For Weymouth is a d*mn'd expensive place.

Sal'sb'ry appears, the lord of stars and strings;
Presents his poem to the best of kings.

Great Cæsar reads it—feels a laughing fit,
And wonders Sal'sb'ry should become a wit.

A batch of bullocks! see great Cæsar run:
He stops the drover—bargain is begun.
He feels their ribs and rumps—he shakes his head—
‘Poor, drover, poor—poor, very poor indeed.’
Cæsar and drover haggle—diff'rence split—
How much?—a shilling! what a royal hit!
A load of hay in sight! great Cæsar flies—
Smells—shakes his head—‘Bad hay—sour hay’—he buys.
‘Smell, Courtown—smell—good bargain—lucky load;
Smell, Courtown—sweeter hay was never mow'd.’
A herd of swine goes by!—‘Whose hogs are these?
Hæ, farmer, hæ?’—‘Yours, measter, if you pleaze.’
‘Poor, farmer, poor—lean, lousy, very poor—
Sell, sell, hæ, sell?’—‘Iss, measter, to be zure:
My pigs were made for zale, but what o'that?
Yow caall mun lean; now, zur, I caall mun vat—
Measter, I baant a starling—can't be cort;
You think, agosh, to ha the pigs vor nort.’
Lo! Cæsar buys the pigs—he slily winks—
‘Hæ Gwinn, the fellow is not caught, he thinks—
Fool, not to know the bargain I have got!
Hæ, Gwinn, nice bargain—lucky, lucky lot!’
Enter the dancing dogs! they take their stations;
They bow, they curtsy to the lord of nations;
They dance, they skip, they charm the k--- of fun,
While courtiers see themselves almost outdone.

Lord Paulet enters on his hands and knees,
Joining the hunts of hares with hunts of fleas .

Enter Sir Joseph! gladd'ning royal eyes!
What holds his hand? a box of butterflies,
Grubs, nests, and eggs of humming-birds, to please;
Noots, tadpoles, brains of beetles, stings of bees.
The noble president without a bib on,
To sport the glories of his blushing ribbon!

The fishermen! the fishermen behold!
A shoal of fish! the men their nets unfold;
Surround the scaly fry—they drag to land:
Cæsar and Co. rush down upon the sand;
The fishes leap about—Gods! what a clatter!
Cæsar, delighted, jumps into the water—
He marvels at the fish with fins and scales—
He plunges at them—seizes heads and tails;
Enjoys the draught—he capers—laughs aloud,
And shows his captives to the gaping crowd.
He orders them to Glo'ster Lodge—they go:
But are the fishermen rewarded?—No!!!

Cæsar spies Lady Cathcart with a book;
He flies to know what 'tis—he longs to look.
‘What's in your hand, my lady? let me know.’
‘A book, an't please your m---y.’—‘Oho!
Book's a good thing—good thing—I like a book.
Very good thing, my lady—let me look—
War of America! my lady, hæ?
Bad thing, my lady!—fling, fling that away.’

A sailor pops upon the royal pair,
On crutches borne—an object of despair:
His squalid beard, pale cheek, and haggard eye,
Though silent, pour for help a piercing cry.

‘Who, who are you? what, what? hæ, what are you?’
‘A man, my liege, whom kindness never knew.’

‘A sailor! sailor, hæ; you've lost a leg.’
‘I know it, sir—which forces me to beg.
I've nine poor children, sir, besides a wife—
God bless them! the sole comforts of my life.’

‘Wife and nine children, hæ?—all, all alive?
No, no, no wonder that you cannot thrive.
Shame, shame, to fill your hut with such a train!
Shame to get brats for others to maintain !
Get, get a wooden leg, or one of cork:
Wood's cheapest—yes, get wood, and go to work.
But mind, mind, sailor—hæ, hæ, hæ,—hear, hear—
Don't go to Windsor, mind, and cut one there:
That's dangerous, dangerous—there I place my traps;
Fine things, fine things, for legs of thieving chaps:
Best traps, my traps—take care—they bite, they bite,
And sometimes catch a dozen legs a night.’

‘Oh! had I money, sir, to buy a leg!’

‘No money, hæ? nor I—go beg—go beg.’—

How sweetly kind to bid the cripple mump,
And cut from other people's trees a stump!
How vastly like our kind Archbishop M---e ,
Who, hating beggar tribes at Lambeth door,
Of meaner parsons bids them ask relief—
There, carry their coarse jugs for broth and beef!

‘Mine Gote! your mashesty!—don't hear sush stuff:
De workhouse always geefs de poor enough.
Why make bout dirty leg sush wondrous fuss?—
And den, what impudence for beg of us!
In Strelitz, O mine Gote! de beggar skip:
Dere, for a sharity, we geefs a whip.
Money make subshects impudent, I'm sure—
Respect be always where de peepel's poor.’

‘How, sailor, did you lose your leg?—hæ, hæ?’

‘I lost it, please your majesty, at sea,
Hard fighting for my country and my king.’

‘Hæ, what—that's common, very common thing.
Hæ! lucky fellow, that you were not drill'd:
Some lose their heads, and many men are kill'd.
Your parish? where's your parish? hæ—where, where?’

‘I serv'd my 'prenticeship in Manchester.’

‘Fine town, fine town—full, full of trade and riches;
Hæ, sailor, hæ, can you make leather breeches?
These come from Manchester—there, there I got 'em!’
On which great Cæsar smacks his buckskin bottom.
‘Must not encourage vagrants—no, no, no—
Must not make laws, my lad, and break 'em too.
Where, where's your parish, hæ? and where's your pass?
Well, make haste home—I've got, I've got no brass.

Now to the Esplanade a seat is borne,
To ease the q---'s sweet bottom and her corn;
For corns are apt ev'n majesty to bite,
As well as on poor toes to vend their spite.

Around the gracious q--- of England, lo,
Dames of the bed-chamber, a goodly row!
Mob passing by, of majesty so fond,
Dipping, like ducks, their noddles in a pond.
How would this sight of Strelitz charm the soul?
A lofty land, although a spider hole!

Avaunt, all frail-ones, from the q---'s chaste view!
Pollution taints the air with such a crew!
Dare ye approach? full soon ye meet resistance;
Imhoff's pure wife shall shove you at a distance:
The east's proud empress, who, with di'mond wand,
Can visit the first lady of the land;
Nay, more, the chronicles of truth aver,
Can make the land's first lady visit her!

She comes! the majesty of this fair isle
Greets Mistress Imhoff with an ell-wide smile;
Bids her partake the radiance of a crown,
And, on the seat of Innocence, sit down.
Lo, down she sits! the mob, all envying, views,
As Mistress Imhoff whispers Indian news.
The Stadtholder! he joins Queen Charlotte—bump
Falls on the seat of royalty, his rump!
Peace to his spirit! he begins to doze!
He snores! heav'ns bless the trumpet of his nose!
So great is folly, that the world mayhap
Shall, grinning, point at Hoogen Moogen's nap.
Princes of Europe, pray exclaim not ‘shame!’
Go, for mankind's repose, and do the same.

My Lady H---e appears! how large!
Deep laden, like a camel, or a barge.
What's all beneath her petticoats?—Shawls, chintz—
Why should the muse, indeed, the matter mince?
Muslins the richest, of the fertile east.
Lo, back she moves again, to be undrest!
At Glo'ster-Lodge, upon the bed she squats,
To drop the lumber, shawls, and broider'd brats;
Where England's happy ------ her steps pursues,
Attends the labour, and turns accoucheuse.

Hark! Cæsar and the little children talk;
Together laugh, together too they walk:

The mob around admire their pleasant things,
And marle that children talk as well as kings.

And now to Delamot's the m---h speeds:
He catches up a score of books, and reads—
Learns nothing—sudden quits the book-abode—
Orders his horse, and scours the Dorset road.
He's in again; he boards the barge—sets sail—
Jokes with the sailors, and enjoys the gale:
Descants on winds and waves—the land regains,
And gives the tars just nothing for their pains!
For, what a bore that kings their slaves should pay!
Sufficient is the honour of the day!

Now springs the sov'reign wildly to the seas—
Rushes intrepid in—along to knees!—
Old Neptune, jealous of his world, looks big—
And blust'ring Boreas blows away his wig.

O Pye! amidst such doings canst thou sleep?
Such wonders whelping on the land and deep!
So nobly form'd to deck th' historic page,
Astonish man, and swell the muse's rage!

Thus, thus I sing of royalty unpaid;
In courts observe, and follow to the shade;
And mean, God willing, since thou wilt not write,
To give each word and action to the light;
With daily deeds my voice sublimely raise,
And sound wise speeches into distant days.
In spite of low Democracy, the brute,
Kings shall at length regain their lost repute.
The poor sunk falcon, robb'd of ev'ry plume,
That snaps the ground, and mourns his humble doom,
With powerful pinion soon from earth shall rise,
Mix with the solar blaze, and sweep the skies.

Such shall be done, if pow'r the bard can boast,
Who deems the breed too precious to be lost.
And since Augustus deign'd with bards to dine,
And, blest with bards, Mecænas drank his wine;

O let us hope that mighty modern kings
May cease to class the bards with vulgar things,
And of the tuneful tribe think somewhat higher,
Than Newgate's bellman, or a country crier !
Should this rare æra rise, and Brunswick's grace
Revive the drooping glory of his race;
How happy at St. James's, my friend Pye,
At Buckingham and Windsor, thou and I,
To see fair Genius re-assume her reign;
Dulness and Avarice expell'd the scene;
The fat'ning bards their laurell'd fronts display,
And proudly triumph over hogs and hay!

Once more then let me beg thee, lazy Pye,
To follow monarchs wheresoe'er they fly:
When, from the lofty pinnacle of thrones,
They sink, to tread, with vulgar folks, the stones;
To Weymouth waves, and sands, and shops repair;
Dash country Joans with dread, and bumpkins scare:
In laugh, and hop, and skip, and jump, and jest,
For ever trifling, and for ever blest.
How like the rustic boy, the simple thing,
Who only wish'd to be a mighty king
(So meanly modest was his pray'r to Fate),
To eat fat pork, and ride upon a gate!

Great has been the massacre among the sturdy oaks, to make room for the courtier-like pliability of the corn-stalk, that brings mere grist to the royal mill.

Be it recollected with horror, that a stone was flung at our beloved sovereign in St. James's Park, about two or three years past, endangering his life; yet an impudent rhimer thought otherwise; who, on the occasion, had the audacity to write the following epigram:

Talk no more of lucky escape of the head,
From a flint so unwittingly thrown:
I think very diff'rent—with thousands indeed,
'Twas a lucky escape for the stone.

Two tradesmen, who repair constantly from London to Weymouth, when royalty deigns to visit the spot.

The honest master of the Royal Hotel.

This mail-coach costs the public at least fifty pounds every day of the week (Sundays not excepted) during the king's residence at Weymouth—It is really a sutler's cart.

This high lord is really a high poet. His journey to Weymouth, which I was horribly afraid would have forestalled mine with the public, will make its appearance soon, and, I am informed, will be enriched, like my works, O marvelling reader! most elegantly bound at this time, and in the library, at Buckingham-house, with royal annotation.

The earl has won the royal smile, and is made a lord of the bed-chamber; but as capricious inconstancy is a prominent feature in the Brunswick family, a royal frown may be at no great distance.

Is not this sarcasm as applicable to thrones as hovels?

It is reported, but we hope falsely, that our metropolitan, as well as Mrs. M---e, are really tired with the number of poor creatures who, three times a week, have, from time immemorial, claimed the charitable donation of broth and meat from Lambeth Palace. It is moreover added, that a strong application has been made for the removal of this nuisance, but hitherto without success.

One of the Parklane triumvirate of sm*g*lers.

Never were the Αοιδοι, alias poets, in more disesteem than at the court of the Brunswicks. Homer, singing of such as were the greatest favourites of ancient monarchs mentions Ιητηρα Κακων, Τεκτονα, Δουρων, and Μαντιν, i.e. a doctor, a house carpenter, and a conjuror. These our beloved S---n, following this classical example of antiquity, has noticed and recommended: Doctor Willis, to parliament; Sir William Chambers, to the comptrollership of the board of works; and Signor Pinetti, to the patronage of all the conjurors of the metropolis.

MR. PITT'S FLIGHT TO WIMBLEDON.

Just as I prophesy'd!—the storm begins!
And thou art off—for Wimbledon, I ween,
To hide thee there for all thy courtly sins,
So complaisant indeed to king and queen!

Loud was thy window's crash—a show'r of stones
Pour'd in thick vollies from the anger'd mob:
How the rude pebbles sought thy vanish'd bones!
And cry'd aloud, ‘Where is the fellow's knob?’
But disappointed, on the carpet spread,
They griev'd they could not rattle round thy head.

Dundas's hay-loft soon, I guess,
In secrecy wilt thou possess;
Or else another secret nameless place—
A sweet asylum from the rage
Of such as desp'rate battle wage
With men who plunge the nation in disgrace.

This was a terrible affair!
Undoubtedly it made thee stare!
Indeed I think that thou wert right,
To ask the friendship of a flight.
Alas! when Danger his stern form reveals,
There's really wisdom in a pair of heels!

Since not a soul dares ope his jaws
To plead, O Pitt, thy awkward cause,
I'll be thy counsel, man, to bring thee off:
Not save thy reputation—no—
That's an Herculean work, I trow;
Thy name must bear, indeed, th' eternal scoff.

Come from thy hay-loft then, or thy retreat
Where Cloacina keeps her silent seat,
And let me lead thee to the people's eye:
Kneel down before them—own thy heavy guilt,
For meanness and king-flatt'ry—treasure spilt,
And other sins too glaring to deny.

This then be thy confession, Pitt:—
‘Alas! by mad Ambition bit,
And grinding Hunger, too, I needs must say;
Where fickle Fortune loves to sport,
I sought the region of the court;
But Conscience damns, alas! the idle day.

‘I bawl'd reform with Richmond's lord,
But never meant to keep my word:
Our bellowing frighten'd the great man and woman;
With patriot threats we forc'd our way,
And, while 'twas sunshine, made our hay,
A trick with statesmen by no means uncommon.

‘Ye gave me credit for my cries,
And, gull'd, with pleasure saw me rise;
Though soon, too soon, ye mock'd the royal choice;
Too soon I read in ev'ry face
The hist'ry of a sad disgrace,
Heard execration load the gen'ral voice.

‘The breeze of popularity soon died—
Soon ebb'd of Fame, alas! th' inconstant tide:
Yet held I places, in the people's spite;
Agreed, amongst my other sins,
For cursed Hanoverian skins;
Agreed for Gallic despotism to fight:
Agreed to pay th' apothecary's bill,
And load, with your good grist, the royal mill.

‘Whisper'd the nation's purse was all their own;
That subjects were rank rascals to complain;
Who, silent, ought to bear the galling chain;
And swore rebellion lurk'd in ev'ry groan.

‘I own, the royal barns are full of corn;
The finest, fattest beeves the land adorn;
The fairest sheep in Windsor fields are seen:
Increase on ev'ry acre smiles,
The richest 'mid the queen of isles:—
All these belonging to our K. and Q.

‘But what can I?—I dare not speak—
I dare not say the people squeak,
And sullen look, and threat, and swear, and cry,
'Tis a vile shame the realm should starve:
Why should not we have fowls to carve,
Although he is, forsooth, so wondrous high?
We put him there—we gave him all his money—
'Tis hard the bees that made should want the honey.’

‘R---d shall out, the man of leathern guns,
Whom Brav'ry scorns, and beauteous Science shuns;
Whom seeming idiotism and madness rules;
The veriest laughing-stock of veriest fools.
H---y no more shall drain the hectic state,
And suck, the leach, the empire to her fate.

‘Lo, from the seat of Justice will I sweep
The fur-clad rogue, renown'd for stealing sheep .

‘I blush to think I help'd the wars of kings,
And, meanly crouching, made a royal pother:
I now think princes very so-so things;
The one half cheats, and arrant fools the other.

Ev'n to the tune she chooses, let her dance:
I'll cram no despots down the throat of France.

‘I own myself, alas! an arrant fool,
Not to suspect, and look that Prussian through:
Yet to Hypocrisy I went to school;
But, hang the fellow, ‘he was Yorkshire too.’

‘When out of place, I thunder'd state reform—
Cry'd, venal parliaments are cursed things:
But when in place—Don't, don't provoke the storm;
Why alter, why displease the best of kings?
Such is the creed of all the courtier train;
Rocks of your hopes—the imps that ye maintain.

‘As sharks and whales pick daily a good dish
From all the dainty under-world of fish,
So tyrants, at a most ungodly rate,
For human dishes daily, hourly, prowl;
And, as the weazel sucks the eggs of fowl,
They, greedy, suck that larger egg, the state.

‘But no such master will I serve,
Nor mistress, christen'd k--- and q---;
Who, whilst their plunder'd subjects starve,
Are, 'midst their hoarded millions, seen.

‘The people's servant, till by fate o'erpower'd,
By G--- that people shall not be devour'd!’

Thus if thou swearest—hear me—By our skins,
Which yet our bastinado'd backs retain;
Gen'rous, we'll wipe out thy old score of sins,
And yield thee suff'rance to begin again.

Thus if thou swearest, and wilt sin no more,
A pardon shall be thine—our anger o'er.
Heed not the wrath of kings—the nation made 'em—
The people put on board their backs their honours;
And should kings forfeit their esteem, the donors
Can (if I err not) in a trice unlade 'em.

Such, Pitt, is my advice—but thou art proud
Although so lately one of us poor crowd;
Crawling, by mean degrees, to thine high station:
Thou canst not well remember thy old rags,
Or thou hadst been more sparing of thy brags;
Insulting thus a much too generous nation.

Lo, thus the lad in base Saint Giles's born,
Blest with a barrow, first begins to bawl;
Where Plenty, ah! exalteth not her horn—
Potatoes the poor barrow's little all!

At length, succeeding by a lucky cry,
And Fortune's fav'ring smile, the lad can buy
A basket!—nay, two baskets for his barrow;
To which he hangs the baskets with much pride,
With endive, cellery, and greens beside—
Yes, with much pride, that warms his inmost marrow—
With all the gaping energy of song,
Proudly he rolls his whole estate along!

Ambition still inspires his panting heart;
And now sublime he rises to a cart,
But not without a jackass, let me say:
A jack is harness'd—on the cart he mounts—
Looks round—elate, his cabbages he counts,
And triumphs in his partner's Brudenell-bray.

He stops not here—Ambition goads his soul
To bid his orb in loftier regions roll,

In Govent-Garden, lo, a shop he gains!
Pines, nect'rines, plums, and apricots, and peaches,
Behold! his laudable ambition reaches;
And now the jack-ass and the cart disdains.

An ass's ditty wounds his nicer ear,
Bringing to mind his late and humble sphere:
Archbishop-like, he tow'rs within his stall—
Looks on the barrow, cart, and basket crew,
With all the consequence of man, askew,
And, for a pack of beggars damns them all.

Whether this notorious and lofty limb of the law will be hanged or not, even the prophetic powers of the Muse cannot foretell; but that a score of stolen sheep, which the owners swore to, were in this fellow's pens, exhibited for sale at a country fair, is a fact that admits of no contradiction. Many bets are pending; and the odds, as well as the hopes of the country, are on the rope.

ODE TO THE FRENCH.

Oh! with what freedom have ye treated kings!
Say, did ye not equip their backs with wings,
Yet cruelly cut off their heads for flying?
Alas! so lately did ye kings adore!
Now 'tis a wolf, a lion, a wild boar—
A hypocrite, a thing of theft and lying.

What folly to create the hungry kite,
Yet quarrel with his appetite and claws;
Or grumble at the tiger's ravenous bite,
Yet give the savage such a pair of jaws!

For ever are ye plung'd in mad extremes!
Let Common Sense, then, rouse you from your dreams.
Grandeur, I own, seems much increas'd in size;
Much gaudier too her dress to mortal eyes.

The lofty lords and ladies of our isle,
Enough to make a grave old Tom cat smile,
Must ev'ry thing, forsooth, in style enjoy;
And if to Margate doctors bid them go,
By sea, to purify from head to toe,
Turn up their dainty noses at a hoy.

‘Foh! in a hoy, the filthy thing, embark!
Loaded with beasts of all kind—Noah's ark!’—

So nice! that, had they by good chance been born
When Captain Noah put his wife on board,
With all his other live stock, they had sworn
To go together boldly to the Lord;
That is to say, be drown'd!—bid life adieu,
Sooner than sail with such a stinking crew.

Yet let me add—not all the great are nice;
Not all by pride are tainted, the vile vice—
No! witness our good k--- and our good q---,
Lord love 'em!—our most humble q--- and k---
Can, gracious, stoop to any little thing,
However humble, not however mean.

Heav'ns bless their pretty, goodly, greasy graces!
I've seen them bolt fat bacon at the races;
On Ascot course, devour such loads of ham,
And wash it down, so dainty, with a dram!

How simple! like to many an ancient king,
That roasted royal dinners by a string,
And turn'd the royal rapier to a spit:
Though full of magnanimity, could stoop
To boil, in their grand helmets, beef and soup,
And eat from thence, so great their saving wit!

When good prince ------ deign'd visit our small isle,
Grand soul! he came in very humble style—
Cut no huge figure—made no mighty flash:
Two shirts belong'd unto the princely lad;
'Twas all the linen treasure that he had,
Which poor old Mother Davies us'd to wash;

Goody of Richmond! mother to the man
Who strikes with rev'rent awe the Eton clan.

‘Dear prince,’ quoth Mother Davies, ‘many a time
The lad in linen was so wondrous short,
I've made 'n wait until I clean'd the grime,
To make 'n, like a Christian, go to court.

‘Yes, on my thorn there, many and many an eye
Hath seen his honour's linen hang to dry;
But soon, indeed, t'increase his little store,
His sister, madam, made a couple more.’

But to return—folks thought strange things of yore,
When no absurdity Belief could shock;
When gossip Prejudice put in her oar,
To scull the simple mind on Error's rock.

What thousands thought that kings and queens eat gold!
That beef and mutton was too coarse a fare;
And that their bodies were so finely soul'd,
They breath'd a fluid beyond vulgar air.

Could not conceive that air so gross and common,
Entering a dog's and cat's, and monkey's nose,
Inflated a queen's lungs, so great a woman;
Or king's, whom such rare particles compose.
Yes! 'tis confess'd that Folly rul'd mankind—
'Twas once the same with me the bard, I find.

I grant that I, in life's more early day,
Deem'd kings young God-almighties—form'd for sway;
The universe, fee simple—all their own:
Though now I think the people claim a right
To somewhat rather larger than a mite;
Nay, that we should ev'n halve it with the throne.

I cry'd, ‘Nought's little which great kings approve;
Kings turn, like Midas, all they touch to gold—
Witness Lord Hawk'sb'ry, turn'd, by royal love,
From Jenkinson, a clod of meanest mould.’
Witness the once poor Rose, though now a lord,
Great at the Treas'ry's honourable board.

What is there in a fog? ‘Nought! nought!’ ye cry.
To me a fog was once important—why?
Immortal Cæsar cloth'd the fog with glory!
How, in the name of wonder—read the story.

The name of this young Strelitz man or prince is absolutely forgotten; but he is, or was, full brother to our most gracious queen.

Dr. Davies, the present provost of Eton college.

CÆSAR AND THE FOG.

CÆSAR, upon a summer's golden day,
Got early from his bed to smell his hay,
And see if all his fowls were safe and sound;
And likewise see what traps had legs and feet
Belonging unto men who wish'd to treat
Their chaps with chicken, on forbidden ground.

Enter a general (Carpenter) low bowing,
Scraping, and, mandarin-like, nodding, ploughing
With nose of rev'rence sweet, the humble grass.—
‘Hæ, gen'ral, hæ? what news, what news in town?’
‘None, sire.’—‘None, gen'ral?—Gen'ral, hæ, none, none?’
‘Nothing indeed, O king, is come to pass.’

‘Strange! strange! what, what—see nothing on the way?
Hæ, hæ?’ cry'd Cæsar, all for news agog.
‘Nothing, my liege—no, nothing I may say,
Excepting upon Hounslow, sir, a fog.’

‘Fog upon Hounslow, gen'ral?—large fog, hæ,
Or small fog, gen'ral?’—‘Large, an't please your sire.’

‘Strange, vastly strange!—what, large fog, large fog, pray?
Yes, yes, yes—large fog, that I much admire.’

Cæsar and Carpenter now talk'd of wars,
Of cannon, bullets, swords, and wounds, and scars:
When, in the middle of the fight, the king
Sudden exclaim'd—‘Fog upon Hounslow, hæ?
‘Large fog too, gen'ral?—well, go on, on, pray—
‘Strange! very strange!—extr'ordinary thing!’

Now dwelt the gen'ral on the battle's rage,
Where muskets, muskets—guns, great guns engage,
Red'ning with blood the field, and stream, and bog;
When rushing from the murd'rous scene of glory,
The monarch sudden marr'd the gen'ral's story—
‘Fog upon Hounslow, gen'ral—large, large fog?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Carpenter unto the king—
‘Strange! very strange!—extr'ordinary thing!’

At length the gen'ral finish'd—lucky elf!—
With much politeness, and much sweat and pain.
‘Thank God! thank God!’ he whisper'd to himself;
‘Curse me, if ever I find fogs again!’

Thus, then, I rev'renc'd fogs in former days,
Because I worshipp'd kings; and though I cease
King-adoration, kings shall share my praise,
Although the gape of Wonder may decrease.

I star'd on kings as comets, with amaze:
But now a deal diminish'd is the blaze.

Kings are mere tallow-candles, nine in ten,
Wanting a little snuffing now and then;
Harb'ring a thief that plays a dangerous game;
Which if we did not watch, and strait pursue,
The fat is in the fire! and then adieu
That grease so rich, the parent of the flame.

Nay, worse event from this same thief appears!
The house, at times, is burnt about our ears.

Yet pray, sirs, take a king from Mister Pitt,
And calmly to the sov'reign's will submit;
And not, as ye have done, on madness border:
Nay, list to me, for oracles I tell—
Kings for the people may do very well,
Like candles and their thieves, when kept in order.

ODE TO THE MILL,

Erected in Windsor Park, for grinding Corn at a cheap Rate for the Poor.

I Said, his m---y was very good!
Ready to sacrifice his royal blood—
Yes, for the poor, each precious drop to spill:
And now behold the corn is grinding down;
Such is the glorious bounty of the crown!
And, lo, in Windsor Park a stately mill!

Blow, blow, ye breezes—faster, gentle gales!
Oh, for the poor of Windsor fill the sails!
Egham and Staines—not Brentford, that vile place
Whose wicked imps, in royalty's despite,
Rush'd to the royal gardens at deep night,
And foully murder'd half the Dryad race.

Blow, gentle gales; ye breezes, harder blow;
Or soon the charity will cease to flow:
Ships to Old Thames are pouring in with corn,
While Madam Ceres whets her scythe and hook:
I hear the clanking sound in every nook;
The reaper's song already cheers the morn.

I said his majesty was good and great;
And that the famish'd poor would have a treat:
And now, behold, they fatten on the flour!
Vile Chronicle, I know what thou wilt say—
‘Why do not monarchs give the flour away?
Why not a part of hoarded millions pour?’

Grind, gentle mill, and bring down all the bran;
The blacker 'tis, the wholesomer for man.

I know that saucy Englishmen will say:
‘Why will not monarchs give their beef away,
While famine's face stares forth from ev'ry door?
How, with an easy heart, can monarchs keep
Such droves of cattle, and such flocks of sheep,
While Hunger gnaws the vitals of the poor?’

Grind, gentle mill, with speed, the corn away;
Nor heed what envious, jealous people say,
‘Why,’ cries the mob, ‘bejewell'd shines the q---,
While Poverty appears with sallow mien?
All know the millions—'twas from us they came:
To shine while thus we suffer, is a shame.’

Worms! know ye not that Hanover is poor,
The fav'rite spot of our most gracious k---?
And shall no guineas, O ye fools, go o'er,
Where all our princes drank at Wisdom's spring?

Grind, gentle mill—nor let one grain be lost:
Well knows the monarch what a bushel cost.

Is not poor Strelitz very poor indeed,
That gave this nation a most gracious q---?
And, O ye rogues, in hist'ry shall we read,
That guineas never were in Strelitz seen?
Inform me, fools, what jewels can go there,
To match the goodly jewel sent us here?

Fools! was not Hesse as poor as a church mouse,
Till kind Amelia sent her thousands o'er?
At once lank Poverty forsook the house,
And, 'stead of straw, a carpet grac'd the floor.

In thee what semblance unto k---s I find!
Not British, but to foreign k---s, I trust;
Who of the simple poor the faces grind,
Just as thou grindest ev'ry grain to dust.

Grind, gentle mill, with all thy kind endeavour!
O grind away!—for better late than never .

This most astonishing charity soon expired. The children of Famine poured in too plentifully upon the royal munificence; which very soon must have reduced majesty to the same most pitiable situation!

A HINT TO A POOR DEMOCRAT.

Say not unto a k---, ‘Thou fool!’—For why?
'Tis unpolite—though possibly no lie:
The speech too blights Preferment's opening bud.
Make monarchs and Dame Wisdom near relations,
And all the Virtues too—such kin-creations
May work thy temporalities much good.

Laud to each word, however weak, be giv'n,
And let each earthy action scent of Heav'n.

To cry, ‘Thou fool!’ were foolish, let me say;
Because kings have so much to give away.—
Steps to preferment are compos'd of flatt'ries:
So easily ye scale her lofty walls,
Just as ye mount the summit of St. Paul's—
But truths!—aye, what are truths?—oh! fatal batt'ries!

Or if we change the figure, fatal ropes,
That of Ambition hang the lofty hopes.
Truths should be only spoken of the Devil;
Though that's ungrateful too, and eke uncivil.

‘But hast not thou,’ exclaims the man of spleen?
‘Taken strange liberties with k--- and q---?
Laugh'd at Idolatry who hugs a throne?
Well! grant my want of rev'rence for a crown;
Equal to him is Fortune's smile and frown,
Whose modest teeth can deign to pick a bone.

My passions are the children (easy creatures)
Of Moderation! boast the mother's features,
And mother's chaste simplicity, the dove;

Can sleep upon the humble sod, and swill,
With great good glee, the valley's lucid rill,
And batten on the berries of the grove.

Look at yon group of sucking pigs—how blest!
What makes them so?—clean straw to form a nest!
So slight a thing their happiness composes!
What dialogue! how arch they squint about!
Now bury their sweet heads—now pull them out,
And toss the wisps so white upon their noses.

These pigs are just my passions, that can draw
Mirth and contentment from a simple straw.

Thy passions are of lofty wing perchance,
Pant for the ortolan and wines of France;
Unblest, if ven'son turn not on thy spit;
Unblest, if turtle smoke not on thy board.
Go then, and flatter Britain's mighty lord,
Kneel to Dundas, and prostrate fall to Pitt.

ODE TO THE ELEPHANT,

Just arrived from Bengal, as a Present from the Nabob of Arcot to her Majesty.

Poor fellow! thou art come, but come in vain;
And mayst as well, methinks, go back again!
Thy meat and passage give our court the spleen:
Dear, very dear, is now all sort of meat;
And all such luckless presents as can eat
Have found no favour yet with k--- or q---.

Now hadst thou been a diamond (no bad size),
Or pearl, or ruby, how the royal eyes
Had idoliz'd thee! gloried to behold!
Rather too bulky for a broche, I fear,
Or pin, or pretty pendant for the ear—
But then thou wouldst have been cut up and sold.

Yes! thou hadst then been welcome—but, alas!
Since nought but flesh and blood! then munching grass,
And what is most insufferable, corn;
Such sad expenses never can be borne.

Of Windsor, Richmond, Kew, the helpless poor,
Whose plaints have made the royal eyes run o'er,
Live on their gracious bounty ev'ry day:
For them their Graces ope their golden bags;
To good warm broad-cloth change their dirty rags,
And round their hovel cast a royal ray.

Seek then thy glooms again, and dusky loves—
The Great Mogul perhaps of eastern groves.

A crying sin, O elephant, is thine—
Thy stomach form'd on such a monstrous scale!
Ev'n Strelitz people, who in eating shine,
Not quite like thee with heavy loads regale.

Yet not to Strelitz be deny'd applause:
Wide are their mouths, and sack-like are their maws.

Yet if resolv'd to live with queens and kings;
While meat and drink are such expensive things;
Pull out thy stomach, cut away thy snout,
And try, poor fellow, try to live without.

THE SORROWS OF SUNDAY:

AN ELEGY.
[_]

The intended Annihilation of Sunday's harmless Amusements, by three or four most outrageously-zealous Members of Parliament, gave Birth to the following Elegy. The Hint is borrowed from a small Composition, entitled ‘The Tears of Old May Day.’

Mild was the breath of morn: the blushing sky
Receiv'd the lusty youth with golden hair,
Rejoicing in his race, to run, to fly;
As Scripture says, ‘a bridegroom débonnaire;’

When, full of fears, the decent Sunday rose,
And wander'd sad on Kensington's fair green:
Down in a chair she sunk with all her woes,
And touch'd, with tenderest sympathy, the scene.

‘O hard Sir Richard Hill!’ exclaim'd the dame;
‘Sir William Dolben, cruel man,’ quoth she;
‘And Mister Wilberforce, for shame! for shame!
To spoil my little weekly jubilee.

‘Ah! pleas'd am I the humble folk to view,
Enjoying harmless talk, and sport, and jest;

Amid these walks their footsteps to pursue,
To see them smiling, and so trimly drest.

‘Since the Lord rested on the seventh day,
Which showeth that Omnipotence was tir'd;
As Moses, in old times; was pleas'd to say,
(And Moses was most certainly inspir'd);

‘Why should not man too rest?’ ‘No!’ cries Sir Dick:
‘At brother Rowland's let him knock his knees,
Pray, sweat, and groan; of this damn'd world be sick;
Of mangy morals crack the lice and fleas;

‘Break Sin's vile bones—pull Satan by the nose;
Scrub, with the soap and sand of grace, the soul;
Give Unbelief, the wretch, a rat's-bane dose;
And stop, with malkins of rich faith, each hole:

‘Spit in foul Drunkenness's beastly mug;
Kill with sharp prayers, each offspring of the Devil;
Give to black Blasphemy, a Cornish hug;
And box, with bats of grace, the ears of Evil.’

Susan, the constant slave to mop and broom;
And Marian, to the spit's and kettle's art;
Ah! shall not they desert the house's gloom,
Breathe the fresh air one moment, and look smart?

Meet, in some rural scene, a Colin's smile;
With love's soft stories, wing the happy hour;
Drop in his dear embraces from the stile,
And share his kisses in the shady bow'r?

‘No!’ roars the Huntingtonian Priest—‘No, no!
Lovers are liars—Love's a damned trade;
Kissing is damnable—to Hell they go—
The Devil's claws await the rogue and jade.

My chapel is the purifying place:
There let them go to wash their sins away:

There, from my hand, to pick the crumbs of grace,
Smite their poor sinful craws, and howl, and pray.’

How hard, the lab'ring hands no rest should know,
But toil six days beneath the galling load,
Poor souls! and then, the seventh be forc'd to go
And box the Devil, in Blackfriar's Road !

Heav'n glorieth not in phizzes of dismay;
Heav'n takes no pleasure in perpetual sobbing;
Consenting freely, that my fav'rite day
May have her tea and rolls, and hob and nobbing.

In sooth, the Lord is pleas'd, when man is blest;
And wisheth not his blisses to blockade:
'Gainst tea and coffee ne'er did he protest,
Enjoy'd, in gardens, by the men of trade.

Sweet is White-Conduit House, and Bagnigge Wells;
Chalk-Farm, where Primrose-Hill puts forth her smile;
And Don Saltero's, where much wonder dwells,
Expelling work-day's matrimonial bile.

Life with the down of cygnets may be clad!
Ah! why not make her path a pleasant track?
‘No!’ cries the Pulpit Terrorist (how mad!)
‘No! let the world be one huge hedgehog's back.

Vice (did his rigid mummery succeed)
Too soon would smile amid the sacred walls;
Venus, in tabernacles, make her bed;
And Paphos find herself amid Saint Paul's.

Avaunt Hypocrisy, the solemn jade,
Who, wilful, into ditches leads the blind:
Makes, of her canting art, a thriving trade,
And fattens on the follies of mankind!

Look at archbishops, bishops, on a fast,
Denying hackney-coachmen ev'n their beer;
Yet, lo! their butchers knock, with flesh repast;
With turbots, lo! the fishmongers appear!

The pot-boys howl with porter for their bellies;
The bakers knock, with custards, tarts, and pies;
Confectioners, with rare ice creams and jellies;
The fruiterer, lo, with richest pine supplies!

In secret, thus, they eat, and booze, and nod;
In public call indulgence a d*mn'd evil;
Order their simple flocks to walk with God,
And ride themselves an airing with the Devil.

The place of Mr. Rowland Hill's chapel.

University of Virginia Library

THE ROYAL TOUR, AND WEYMOUTH AMUSEMENTS;

A Solemn and Reprimanding EPISTLE TO THE LAUREAT.

PITT's FLIGHT TO WIMBLEDON, AN ODE. —AN ODE TO THE FRENCH.—ODE TO THE CHARITY-MILL IN WINDSOR-PARK. —A HINT TO A POOR DEMOCRAT.—ODE TO THE QUEEN's ELEPHANT.—THE SORROWS OF SUNDAY; AN ELEGY.