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

And taught their fatal thunders where to roll?
Ah! forc'd his lofty perch to quit,
He dwindles to a poor tom-tit,
And skulks through humble hedges to his hole.

Is this the man who pension'd spies,
Informers, that, with wolf-like eyes,
Prowl'd nightly, yelling, in pursuit of food?
Is this the man, who put, alack,
Such bugs upon the nation's back,
To gnaw and suck its best, its vital blood?

Where are thy bustling levees now?
Thy humble sycophants to bow,
Obey thy mandate, and applaud thy wit?
Unnotic'd thou shalt lonely ride,
Attended only by thy pride,
That never, never yet forsook a Pitt.

Cur-like shalt thou walk in and out,
Unnotic'd at her Grace's rout!
Unnotic'd, down thy throat, her pastry poke:
No bumpkin, no poor country wight,
Shall, stealing near with curious sight,
Watch if thy jaw-bones wag like those of common folk!

George Rose's papers shall turn tail—
Expose thy blunders, storm and rail,
And ope of Calumny the dirty springs;
While Anti-Jacobin Reviews
Shall cull the literary stews
For flowers to deck the counsellor of kings.

Each newspaper that took delight
To make thee, like the snow-ball, white,
Will paint thee now as black as Hell:
No more thy voice angelic hail,
But give the horn, and hoof, and tail,
With Cerberus's frightful yell!—

395

Paint thee a damned spirit from below,
Rais'd by some wizard for the nation's woe.

Lo! thou art sprawling in the dirt!
The mob their wanton jokes will spirt!—
Behold a sable chimney-sweep appear!
And hark! a scavenger, with eyes
Sparkling with rapture and surprise,
Exclaims—‘Ah, Master Billy, are you there?’
Then, anxious to reward thee, on they rush,
One with his broom, and t'other with his brush!

Hark! authors braying round thee crowd,
And authoresses cry aloud—
‘Villain! to wage a war with all the muses!’
And lo, the printer's devils appear!
With ink thy visage they besmear,
While each in turn indignantly abuses;
And more their pris'ner to disgrace,
They empt the pelt-pot in thy face!
Roaring, around thee as they caper,
‘Take that, my boy, for tax on paper!’

And lo, with anger Hardy glows!
The man of leather, with delight,
Runneth his awl into thy nose,
And stirrups thee with all his might.
‘He wants much mending, d*mn my eyes!’
The punning son of Crispin cries—
‘The shoe quite rotten—yes, the whole—
Quite vanished ev'ry bit of sole.’

And, see! the girls around thee throng—
‘Art thou the wight, thus stretch'd along,
An enemy well known to wives and misses?
Art thou the man who dost not care
For oglings, squeezes of the fair;
Nay, makest up wry mouths at woman's kisses?’—

396

Then shall the nymphs apply their birchen rods,
And baste thee worse than Peter Pindar's Odes.

And see poor Paddy with his pole!
‘By Jasus now, I'll twig his jowl,
For leaving us poor Christians in the lurch:
Open your jaw-bones, Master Knave—
Where be the promises ye gave,
To give a bit of shove to Mother Church?
To a good market, faith! our hogs are brought—
And so we're dead, and kill'd, and murder'd, all for naught!’

The cats shall spit at thee!—and, hark!
The curs in yelling concert bark.
The cats exclaim—‘Our mice with famine moan!
Not one fat mouse is to be had!’
‘Aye,’ cry the curs, ‘and what's more sad,
We cannot now obtain a well-pick'd bone!’

O Furcifer—no, Lucifer I mean—
How art thou fall'n from the starry sphere!
Kick'd from the presence of the K. and Q.—
From burgundy, from claret, to small beer!

That feature of thy face call'd nose,
Which now with many a ruby glows,
Shall lose, alas! its wonted fire!
The claret-lustre shall expire!
For Poverty's pale fingers soon pick out
The blushing rubies of the richest snout.

The meanest of the mean shall scoff,
And cry, ‘I'm glad the fellow's off!’
The tailor leaps in rapture from his board;
The cobbler throws his shoe away;
The washerwoman flings her tray;
The shoeblack drops his brush, and thanks the Lord:
To pot-houses they run with loud acclaim,
To get more joyful news from Gossip Fame.

Fox, on thy fall, with scorn must look;
And pointed Sheridan and Tooke

397

Will make thee tingle with the lash of wit:
The poorest reptile of the House,
The vilest little borough louse,
Will scratch and bite the back of Billy Pitt.

And he , of whom the muses brag,
From his stretch'd jaws shall pull the gag,
And vengeful to thy head shall give it wing:
Then shall he cry, with dauntless looks,
‘I'll go again amongst the cooks,
And tell more pretty tales of q--- and k---.’

The jolly and hospitable Duchess of Gordon.

An utensil among printers, containing a certain stale fluid for the benefit of the balls.

My very identical and numerical self, whose innocent and improving rhimes falling some years since in the way of an irritable and offended bashaw, gave birth to an act of parliament vowing vengeance on the wight that should, by any prose or poetical anatomy, dare exhibit the inside of heads royal.