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.
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.
