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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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
78
CANTO III.
And now they talk'd of good great men,
Who by their merits rise;
When Bishop Porteus was the theme;—
Great, though of little size:
Who by their merits rise;
When Bishop Porteus was the theme;—
Great, though of little size:
Who, though before the Chancellor
He humbly bore the mace,
Did at the last a mitre wear;
Such Friends are Faith and Grace.
He humbly bore the mace,
Did at the last a mitre wear;
Such Friends are Faith and Grace.
Now Boniface did loud exclaim,
For wondrous proud was he:
‘D'ye know that this same bishop's wife
No better was than me?
For wondrous proud was he:
‘D'ye know that this same bishop's wife
No better was than me?
‘No better, though the lofty wife
Of this most grand divine!
Her father did an alehouse keep,
No better, man, than mine!
Of this most grand divine!
Her father did an alehouse keep,
No better, man, than mine!
‘There Madam Porteus, a young maid,
Did draw the ale and beer;
And drew good customers, 'tis said,
Indeed from far and near.
Did draw the ale and beer;
And drew good customers, 'tis said,
Indeed from far and near.
‘When Parson Porteus trudg'd that way—
Now see how things may hap!
And, sweating, took a pint of stout
From this young maiden's tap.
Now see how things may hap!
And, sweating, took a pint of stout
From this young maiden's tap.
79
‘Now Love within the pewter pot,
So wondrous is his art,
Lurk'd sly, and as the parson swill'd,
Slipp'd down into his heart.
So wondrous is his art,
Lurk'd sly, and as the parson swill'd,
Slipp'd down into his heart.
‘At once he glow'd with furious flame,
And ey'd the comely she;
And very soon he squeez'd her hand,
For wounded much was he.
And ey'd the comely she;
And very soon he squeez'd her hand,
For wounded much was he.
‘Thus, when the linnet flies to drink
To some fair crystal spring,
By lime-twigs quickly is he caught
And cannot move a wing.
To some fair crystal spring,
By lime-twigs quickly is he caught
And cannot move a wing.
‘Now soon as the young girl's papa
The courtship did explore,
He took them by the shoulders both,
And shov'd them both to door.
The courtship did explore,
He took them by the shoulders both,
And shov'd them both to door.
‘As Adam and his dearest Eve
Left Eden with a tear;
So Porteus with his sweetheart left
The tap-room and the beer.
Left Eden with a tear;
So Porteus with his sweetheart left
The tap-room and the beer.
‘Forth wander'd they in homely plight,
Griev'd that their plan miscarried;
But soon, in spite of poverty,
The loving pair were married.
Griev'd that their plan miscarried;
But soon, in spite of poverty,
The loving pair were married.
‘Nor proud is Mistress Porteus now,
Though lofty is her lot;
For glad is she old friends to see,
And eke a pewter pot.’
Though lofty is her lot;
For glad is she old friends to see,
And eke a pewter pot.’
Thus ended Boniface; and now
They talk'd of Hannah More,
Whose fame the bishop's trumpet sounds,
That makes a mighty roar.
They talk'd of Hannah More,
Whose fame the bishop's trumpet sounds,
That makes a mighty roar.
Then on each other they did wink,
Which thus might be translated;
Some people may a mitre wear,
And yet be shallow-pated.
Which thus might be translated;
Some people may a mitre wear,
And yet be shallow-pated.
80
And now they prais'd the bishop's care,
Who makes it all his pride
To see the clergy well behave,
And on their cures reside.
Who makes it all his pride
To see the clergy well behave,
And on their cures reside.
For, lo! the bishop finds it hard
Unto their cures to pull 'em;
Though he, good man, for reasons wise,
Doth seldom preach at Fulham.
Unto their cures to pull 'em;
Though he, good man, for reasons wise,
Doth seldom preach at Fulham.
‘I fear some bishops are in fault,’
Quoth Boniface, and sigh'd—
‘They are a proud and haughty set.’—
‘Too true,’ the youth replied.
Quoth Boniface, and sigh'd—
‘They are a proud and haughty set.’—
‘Too true,’ the youth replied.
‘Over poor curates’ backs, alas!
How Jehu-like they drive!
And, Lord! how these old drones will suck
The honey of the hive!’
How Jehu-like they drive!
And, Lord! how these old drones will suck
The honey of the hive!’
Of Dame Religion now they talk'd,
Belov'd by each divine;
Who thinks their wealthy patroness
All in a deep decline.
Belov'd by each divine;
Who thinks their wealthy patroness
All in a deep decline.
To bring her back to health again,
Of recipes a score
Good Doctor Porteus jointly wrote
With Parson Hannah More.
Of recipes a score
Good Doctor Porteus jointly wrote
With Parson Hannah More.
For, lo! the dame with these great folk
Has always been in favour;
For which they both for her would fight,
And risk their all to save her.
Has always been in favour;
For which they both for her would fight,
And risk their all to save her.
Most grossly was she us'd in France;
Most cruelly, alack!
Her pockets pick'd, and her best clothes
All pilfer'd from her back.
Most cruelly, alack!
Her pockets pick'd, and her best clothes
All pilfer'd from her back.
The French swore she a bastard was
Of some old canting friar;
And from her childhood known to be
A hypocrite and liar.
Of some old canting friar;
And from her childhood known to be
A hypocrite and liar.
81
Her rings they robb'd, and di'monds too;
Her gold they stole by tuns;
With which they shot and powder bought,
Swords, muskets, and great guns.
Her gold they stole by tuns;
With which they shot and powder bought,
Swords, muskets, and great guns.
Not only this, indeed, was done
By this same rabble rout;
They broke the bones of saints, and kick'd
The saintesses about.
By this same rabble rout;
They broke the bones of saints, and kick'd
The saintesses about.
Such was their treatment by the mob,
Such rage did Hell inspire;
If gold, they coin'd them; and, if wood,
They put them in the fire.
Such rage did Hell inspire;
If gold, they coin'd them; and, if wood,
They put them in the fire.
Old jawbones of the sainted tribes
Old teeth, old nails, old noses,
Old toes, old shoes, that wonders work'd,
As ev'ry one supposes.
Old teeth, old nails, old noses,
Old toes, old shoes, that wonders work'd,
As ev'ry one supposes.
Old wigs, and night-caps, gowns, and rags,
Spoon, trencher, knife and fork;
Pap-spoon, and frying-pan, and spit,
That many a marvel work.
Spoon, trencher, knife and fork;
Pap-spoon, and frying-pan, and spit,
That many a marvel work.
‘Religion was a gentle maid,’
Quoth Boniface agen—
‘In the year one; but since she's spoil'd
By wicked artful men.
Quoth Boniface agen—
‘In the year one; but since she's spoil'd
By wicked artful men.
‘The bishops taught her to be proud,
And heap of wealth a store;
To paint her cheeks, and wear the garb
Of some sad tawdry w---.
And heap of wealth a store;
To paint her cheeks, and wear the garb
Of some sad tawdry w---.
‘I think she is too well dress'd out
By ev'ry great divine.’—
‘Indeed,’ quoth Orson with a sigh,
‘I think she goes too fine.’
By ev'ry great divine.’—
‘Indeed,’ quoth Orson with a sigh,
‘I think she goes too fine.’
Of Peter Pindar now they talk'd,
Who so divinely sings;
Renown'd from pole to pole for odes,
And compliments to kings.
Who so divinely sings;
Renown'd from pole to pole for odes,
And compliments to kings.
82
Then, raptur'd, on his works they dwelt,
And on his high pretension;
Lamenting much he had not got
From majesty a pension:
And on his high pretension;
Lamenting much he had not got
From majesty a pension:
While parasites, and pimps to lords,
Enjoy'd their wealth and state;
While he, poor soul, did make wry mouths
Upon an empty plate.
Enjoy'd their wealth and state;
While he, poor soul, did make wry mouths
Upon an empty plate.
On which they sagely did remark,
That slight was merit's meed;
And that the sun, for one fair flow'r,
Did foster many a weed.
That slight was merit's meed;
And that the sun, for one fair flow'r,
Did foster many a weed.
‘I have his works,’ quoth Boniface,
‘This moment in the house;
Pray, Farmer, did you ever read
His poem on a Louse?
‘This moment in the house;
Pray, Farmer, did you ever read
His poem on a Louse?
‘And Apple Dumplings and chok'd Sheep,
The Pilgrims and the Peas;
The Brick-kiln, Brewhouse, Parson Young,
And Songs that ladies please?’
The Pilgrims and the Peas;
The Brick-kiln, Brewhouse, Parson Young,
And Songs that ladies please?’
‘This great man's poems I have read;
Yes, over, sir, and over,’
Quoth Orson, with a wink and smile
That pleasure did discover.
Yes, over, sir, and over,’
Quoth Orson, with a wink and smile
That pleasure did discover.
‘But then,’ said he, and gave a shrug,
‘Some alderman and may'r
Swore that his impudence is such,
It bristled up their hair:
‘Some alderman and may'r
Swore that his impudence is such,
It bristled up their hair:
‘Said that he grins too much at courts,
And never would refrain;
And in respect of titled folk,
Was wicked as Tom Paine.
And never would refrain;
And in respect of titled folk,
Was wicked as Tom Paine.
‘They call'd him ev'ry name that's bad,
Turk, Infidel, and Jew;
And wanted, when they burnt his books,
To burn the a thor too.’
Turk, Infidel, and Jew;
And wanted, when they burnt his books,
To burn the a thor too.’
83
‘O shameful aldermen and may'r,
To burn so sweet a bard!’
Cry'd Boniface—‘alas! alas!
'Twas very, very hard.
To burn so sweet a bard!’
Cry'd Boniface—‘alas! alas!
'Twas very, very hard.
‘The Justice too, I do suppose,
Did hate him from his marrow;
And with as much good-will would shoot
The poet as a sparrow.
Did hate him from his marrow;
And with as much good-will would shoot
The poet as a sparrow.
‘I hope this wondrous man of verse
Is steel'd with resolution;
As virtuous people, in all times,
Have suffer'd persecution.’
Is steel'd with resolution;
As virtuous people, in all times,
Have suffer'd persecution.’
And now they talk'd of one George Rose,
Who born in low estate,
Did mount to worship and to wealth—
So very blind is fate.
Who born in low estate,
Did mount to worship and to wealth—
So very blind is fate.
Of George's mother then they talk'd,
Her hut, and dirty geer;
And said, that George allow'd his dam
But thirty pounds a year.
Her hut, and dirty geer;
And said, that George allow'd his dam
But thirty pounds a year.
Poor crone, who swore she would have more,
Or, lo! his pride to sting,
She'd run to London in her rags,
And show them to the king.
Or, lo! his pride to sting,
She'd run to London in her rags,
And show them to the king.
But George disliketh much to hear
About his Scottish home;
Thus scabby heads, the proverb says,
For ever hate a comb.
About his Scottish home;
Thus scabby heads, the proverb says,
For ever hate a comb.
And now of Hawkesbury they talk'd,
Who wrote in mags for hire;
Whose works, till in the chimney put,
Ne'er felt one spark of fire.
Who wrote in mags for hire;
Whose works, till in the chimney put,
Ne'er felt one spark of fire.
Of taxes now they talk'd, and curs'd
The emperor o'er and o'er;
And then on Paul they pour'd some gall
And very loudly swore.
The emperor o'er and o'er;
And then on Paul they pour'd some gall
And very loudly swore.
84
‘The game laws too,’ quoth Boniface,
Provoke me to the quick;
We must not knock a pheasant down,
Although 'tis with a stick.
Provoke me to the quick;
We must not knock a pheasant down,
Although 'tis with a stick.
‘Curse on the justices, the thieves,
That send a man to jail,
For touching, with an inch of gun,
A partridge or a quail:
That send a man to jail,
For touching, with an inch of gun,
A partridge or a quail:
‘Who threat my licence too to take,
And ding, and huff, and vapour,
Because I won't be humm'd, and buy
George Rose's stupid paper !’
And ding, and huff, and vapour,
Because I won't be humm'd, and buy
George Rose's stupid paper !’
Now talk'd they of the princesses
Elizabeth and Mary,
Whose taste in all the polish'd arts
Is most extraordinary.
Elizabeth and Mary,
Whose taste in all the polish'd arts
Is most extraordinary.
85
Then of the sweetness of their looks,
Their manners all so mild;
That win, where'er they pass, the heart
Of man, and maid, and child.
Their manners all so mild;
That win, where'er they pass, the heart
Of man, and maid, and child.
And let me also join my praise,
Before I further sing;
The Muse with rapture oft hath mark'd
The daughters of the king.
Before I further sing;
The Muse with rapture oft hath mark'd
The daughters of the king.
And if her voice could pour a strain,
To yield their hearts delight;
Lo! all Parnassus with their names
Should ring from morn to night.
To yield their hearts delight;
Lo! all Parnassus with their names
Should ring from morn to night.
Which of the two papers is meant by Boniface, we cannot ascertain; as the Sun was accustomed to lick up the leavings of the poor dead or dying True Briton, and disgorge for the benefit of the public: either of those newspapers, therefore, may be alluded to by the landlord, as their respective merits are rather beneath the dignity of criticism. We must say, indeed, that every exertion has been made, particularly by the Post-Office, to cram their trash down the throats of the nauseating people of England. A newspaper is made the test of our political principles. Is the Morning Post, or the Courier, or the Morning Chronicle called for, the man is branded with the odious name of jacobin. Yet who reads of a defeat in these ministerial hirelings? Pæans are for ever sung: British laurels neither decrease nor fade—all alive and blooming! Victory attends the chariot of every British Mars—and the fools-cap which the comquering and contemptuous enemy now and then clapped on the heads of some of our generals, has been, by the hocus pocus of a misrepresenting newspaper, converted into a triumphal crown.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |