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

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.