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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GREAT CRY AND LITTLE WOOL;
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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
GREAT CRY AND LITTLE WOOL;
OR, THE SQUADS IN AN UPROAR;
OR, THE PROGRESS OF POLITICS,
OR, EPISTLES, POETICAL AND PICTURESQUE.
WRITTEN BY TOBY SCOUT, ESQ. A Member of the Opposition; AND EDITED BY PETER PINDAR, ESQ.
And wish'd her lost health to regain;
She would kick out the mountebank P---,
And consult her old doctor again.
Deserving full many a drub;
Thy long ears can with pleasure let pass
Any lie, any Tale of a Tub!
With praise and fair promise they treat thee,
And so thick is thy head-piece, poor Jack,
Thou suspect'st not their plan is—to eat thee!
EPISTLE I.
Lo! our senses are all of employ full;
And our stomachs of poverty sick,
Will speedily sing, ‘O be joyful!’
Whose beams have been long in deep mourning:
'Tis a lane, let me tell ye, my lad,
Dev'lish long, that has never a turning.
Know, our worthy old monarch is dying!
If we mind but our P's and our Q's,
We shall quickly be roasting and frying.
Of good eating and drinking a story;
As the sun of Pall-Mall from his cloud,
Will soon be ascending in glory.
Who scorns to report a false tale;
That the minister shakes in his shoes—
Harpoon'd is our mighty state-whale!
Poor Mister Leviathan Addy!
Lo, his grandeur, so lately a sun,
Is sinking (sad fall!) to a caddy.
A nice pickle, you well may suppose—
Yery like, between sawyers a log,
His sharp-tooth'd good friends, and his foes.
His chops will be held pretty fast;
And, thank God, Cousin Nic, we shall have
The loaves and the fishes at last.
Sailing orders are issued—and mind,
G---'s anchor is really a-peak,
Sails all set, with an excellent wind!
Are call'd in, and prescribing their slop!
When thou wishest to shorten thy breath,
Nic, send for pill, potion, and drop.
Pepys, Heberden, Reynolds, and Millman!
Who would now for his life give a pin?
Four! enough, without fever, to kill man.
‘There is wisdom’—so says the black cloth.
Yet a proverb as good we may pick,
And as old—‘The more cooks the worse broth.’
Some look pleasant, and others full sad:
All London in short is in motion,
And much on th' alert is our squad.
Now cast higher glory their eye on—
Soap, herrings, wigs, mousetraps, and leather,
Are all looking out for a lion.
Needle-arm'd, hand-extended, prepar'd
To stab the black cloth with their swords,
The instant the death is declar'd.
Arm'd with scissars and pins, on the gape;
On the blacks with dire fury to fall,
And cut through deep columns of crape.
Like shrimps all together they cling,
That there's scarce room enough for a mouse,
So alarm'd for the life of the king!
(What a tumult, and bellow, and roar!)
Rush the beasts to peep into his den,
To spy if good Leo's no more.
Nicholas Scout, Esq. of the city of York, a gentleman of Fortune, and a first cousin of Toby Scout, Esq. The letters were written at the commencement of his majesty's late unfortunate indisposition.
EPISTLE II.
You know him, Nic—bony and big,
With a voice like the voice of a Stentor;
His old phiz in a bushel of wig.
As his wisdom march'd solemnly in,
(The impudent varlets and jades!)
Gather'd round him with wonder and grin.
And witness'd a large German owl,
Hopping forth with a visage demure,
To attract all the nations of fowl.
Grey, and yellow, green, brown, black, and blue,
Flock around him with chatter and stare—
‘Whence d'ye come? who the devil are you?’
Give the parson a twig by the ear;
And to add to the graces of sound,
He will teach his new pupil to swear.
Rudely utter'd, we dare not deny;
He resembles a loud clap of thunder,
That frightens and brightens the sky.
That whether he's sober or mellow,
Though as blunt as a bear in his way,
True genius admires the old fellow.
Thou exclaimest, ‘Oh! tempora mutantur!’
Or swear'st I'm clapping a trick.—
Cousin Nic, I'll be c*rs'd if I banter.
EPISTLE III.
Sweet balm on the heart that has bled!
O Love, what a treasure thy tear!
A rich pearl on the tomb of the dead.
And sublime for the lead of these days!
And now let me talk of a fair,
Sweet object of pity and praise.
And announc'd the small hopes of a cure,
He expected a smile from the dame,
With a purse for his news, to be sure.
He thought some rare gift would appear.
Ah! her handkerchief only!—She took it,
Sweet mourner, to hold a fond tear;
And Love, of the Passions the queen;
Pure pearl! had it dropp'd to the earth,
In treasure how rich it had been!
That kings, like their subjects, must die;
She look'd up with a visage so sweet,
Bade farewell, with so tender a sigh?
Yet a lustre she casts on her race—
By the lord, Cousin Nic, she's a jewel,
And her heart is as fair as her face.
At Merit, poor Merit, to throw;
Of ink has for ever a flood,
To blacken a bosom of snow!
On wisdom and charity bent,
To Health, and the breeze of the lawn,
To the cottage of Peace and Content.
Yes! I've really drunk deep of the stream;
Yet a goose must be really inspir'd,
When the Virtues and Loves are the theme.
EPISTLE IV.
The dam of our great Master C*nn---g;
Forth flying, as brisk as a lark,
With her daughters perspiring and fanning!
I'm this moment come up in the hoy:
I'm so glad, then, to find ye here out;
Lord! Lord! I'm transparent with joy.
Tell one t'other what each of us hears:
But first, sir, these girls are my wenches—
Jolly jades, Mister Scout, for their years.
No! that would my consequence level!
Great prefarment I quickly shall see,
So my boxes may roll to the Devil.
How I got my nice little appointment:
Mister Pitt, sir, whom ev'ry one knows—
I open'd his winkers with ointment!
He could not peep out of a hole:
Sir, it is not a bit of a lie,
The man was as blind as a mole!
Water-gruel! no more, Mister Scout.
We shall soon hear the minister squeak;
We shall hear him for mercy cry out.
How he ran in a frighted condition,
And bellow'd to Portland and Fox,
And so form'd the fine fam'd coalition.
Yes, yes, and the thing shall be done;
And Addington crawl on his knees,
And bellow to Pitt and my son.
It shall be brought forward—it must—
Yes, yes, we'll make up for the past:
I'll kick up a dev'l of a dust.
This day will I go to the grocer's,
And give him a spice of my tongue,
And call them great fat-headed dozers.
Finely gilt, with the anchor of Hope;
And thus will expose him to view,
In the baker's and pastry-cook's shop.
By which popularity's made,
And I know them all, Master Scout;
I think I'm no fool in that trade.
(Now I don't mean a sarcasm on Pitt);
And I'd put the grave bird on a pole,
And the nation should kneel to tee-whit.
Nice match! oh, a very nice match!
Half a million of money! not less!
O Lord! 'twas a beautiful catch!
Three days, sir, before the grand wedding,
Bundled off were my daughters and me;
Pack'd off in the mail, bed and bedding.
Our court to great people to pay;
And so we were all order'd off,
For fear of disgracing the day!
When they found we sold bobbin and inkle!
O Lord! 'twas descending to dirt;
It was coupling a whale with a winkle.
Her elbow away she would twitch,
For fear of her elegant hide—
I might probably give her the itch!
Who, perhaps, owes her fortune to jobbin:
A shop is no sin, I suppose.
And Jobbin's no better than bobbin.
That amongst the great munchers of currie ,
That lacks are not easily got,
Not honestly made in a hurry.
That I'm to be clapp'd on the shelf?
Thank Heav'n, I'm as wholesome as she,
And a Christian as good as herself.
What signifies richness of blood?
Or what ev'n the nicest of victuals,
If a body ben't vartuous and good?
Poor souls, when they dropp'd from the moon?
No! they had not a knife nor a plate,
Not a table, nor dish, nor a spoon.
Does she think I caan't sit to a table?
That my parents good scholarship gave,
To eat hay with a horse in a stable?
That, hog-like, my grinders would work?
Does she think I should cough in the mug,
And pick all my teeth with a fork?
Then whisk out a mouthful of wind;
Lick my plate, for to save the clean cloth,
And drink healths to the fellows behind?
Of my tongue, that I have not the use?
Made to listen, and stare, and be mum,
And cannot say, ‘Boh!’ to a goose?
Some outlandish beast—that I howl!
I waan't born, no, indeed, Mister Scout,
In a wood, to be scar'd by an owl!
This world makes a terrible touse;
Here and there, sir—some in, and some out;
Now a man, and next minute a mouse.
Great speaker! a wonderful thinker!
A staff for my boy of the sword;
Rank for Richard, and Tommy the tinker.
Their chariots and phaetons sporting;
Billet-douxing with bucks, derry down!
Such a kettle of fish! such a courting!
His anchor's a-peak, never doubt it—
For the man for his office, you know,
Is the man who knows nothing about it.
No huge mighty matters, depend on't!
A little hard fighting and firing,
And boarding, and so there's an end on't!
To settle th' affairs of the nation—
I now can afford to be gay;
And we'll have a nice jollification.’
What a bore, Cousin Nic! what a clack!
What a cock-and-bull tale, what a tongue!
Zounds! 'twould distance the fly of a jack!
It is called Costello's Collirium, which has experienced a most uncommon sale, from the very fortunate circumstance of having opened the eyes of the Heaven-born minister, who, to exhibit to the world a rich specimen of disinterested gratitude, saddled the nation with pensions on Madam H---n, the Miss H---ns, alias C*nn---gs, alias Reddishes; a pension on her husband, Mr. Richard H---n; a place in the West Indies for one Master Reddish, and military promotion in the East for the other; and to crown the whole, a pension for poor Uncle Tommy, the tinker of Somers Town. What a beautiful nest of caterpillars, ordained by the Heaven-born œconomical minister to devour the few remaining leaves of the old oak! THE EDITOR.
General Scott, the father of Mrs. Canning, made an immense fortune in the East Indies, by his profession, and a lucky throw of the dice.
EPISTLE VII.
‘I will have what I've fix'd my delight on—
A fig for some people! who cares?
Nothing less than the Duchess of Brighton!
Who have blink'd me, I'll handsomely swinge!
Of the cup of Contempt ye shall taste,
Or I ne'er knew the sweets of revenge!
To my circles ye shall not be beckon'd;
With princes my rooms shall be fill'd;
And my name shall be Ninon the Second.
I know who ne'er ask'd me to theirs,
Who turn'd up their impudent snouts;
For their honour, Lord! fill'd with such fears!
A pretty black list of each chit:
And if Vengeance, dear Vengeance, have flames,
The torch shall be speedily lit!
I will soon play the part of the viper;
I will rant like the mistress of Jove!
I shall dance, and the --- pay the piper.’
Much a fav'rite, of yore, with the men;
Nice picking about her—a pheasant!
Now tasteless and tough—an old hen!
With the actions of youth she will bore us—
Time always stands still with ourselves!
We think the world grows old before us!
To their int'rest most lovingly steady;
And to tickle the trout of her pride,
She's be-grac'd and be-duchess'd already!
By this magic thy business is done;
One half of a word, or a letter,
Is enough—'tis the sine quânon.
Thy charm will for ever endure;
Lo, the loftiest, seduc'd by thy smile,
Descend, like the hawk, to the lure!
But the world is a dev'lish queer stick.
Dost thou wish for the smiles of a court?
Make love to a petticoat, Nic.
EPISTLE VIII.
Most rueful indeed! a yard long—
Gone, gone are the smiles and the graces;
Most capital subjects for song!
Bull-head C*rd---n, dead in the dumps;
Salisb'ry, looking confoundedly blue,
And his countess as blue as poor Numps.
Are seen with a sorrowful air—
With their lily-white handkerchiefs out—
Sad flags, cousin Nic, of despair!
Old Jenk—of the closet old rats—
Will feel his bones cracking, I ween,
(Heav'n grant it!) by one of our cats!
Instead of the stupid and tubbish;
Choice spirits, instead of dull swine;
Bright Jewels, instead of old rubbish.
And cropsick the grooms and the pages,
As if struck on the head with a bludgeon,
Seem to say, ‘Farewell honour and wages!’
The scullions, half out of their wits—
‘Adieu to the platters! Adieu
To the dripping-pans, sauce-pans, and spits!’
With other young knights of the mews,
And other young knights of the broom,
For their places all shake in their shoes.
When the prince shall arrive at the throne,
Farewell to the farce of an ode;
Thus the ‘Black's occupation is gone.’
Musicians will come from that class
Which know the sweet lark from a hog;
Braham's voice from the bray of an ass!
Slily squinting and creeping about,
Snuffing wildly the wind—but what then,
If Dame Partlet refuse to come out?
The grocers observe him at Dover,
And may send him a pound of brown sugar;
But as to the statue, 'tis over.
How fall'n! ah! how lost all thy light!
No longer the heavens adorning!—
Poor planet—good night t'ye—good night!
I still must acknowledge his merit;
Though his quack'ries and insolent state
I despise, let me honour his spirit.
To his castle to learn to be wary,
He astonies the fields and the cattle,
With tactics yclep'd mili-tary!
Studying Saxe and Vauban, night and day;
And already has kill'd one ram cat,
Three magpies, two owls, and a jay!
Huge feats he is seen to perform!
He has torn a poor dunghill to rags,
And taken a bog-house by storm!
With his bayonet he stabb'd an old sow;
He pierc'd a large calf with a pike,
And slew with a broad-sword the cow.
And crack'd of some yearlings the skull;
Put of oxen a score to the rout,
And leap'd on the back of the bull!
As great in a battle his skill is;
And thus a fit Chiron, I'm sure,
For instructing his pupil Achilles.
If a hedge-hog they meet, he is dead!
If a squirrel—bounce, off goes a gun!
If a mushroom—smack, off goes his head!
With a fury heroic they rend it!
Is a mole-hill? in battle array,
In column, they march to defend it!
Mines, sausages, bridges, and ditches;
Pikes, bayonets, and ramrods, and javelins,
Palisadoes, and guns, and their breeches—
Ev'n at meal-times untir'd is the tongue;
When, lo! with the voice of a Mars,
They sing of proud triumph the song.
INVITATION TO BONAPARTE:
A DUET,
By Mr. Pitt and General Moore.
We will meet thee at Dover;
And the generals our forces commanding
Will salute thy two ears
With three excellent cheers,
And a warm Cornish hug, at thy landing.
Let us see too, and know,
With thy uncles and aunts—a brave band:
Bring likewise thy cousins,
Of whom thou hast dozens—
And bring the old fox, Talleyrand.
How brisk we shall be,
To bestow ev'ry thing in our pow'r:
Most excellent air;
Nice lodgings to spare;
Ev'n the best to be found in the Tower.
And so very divine!
Thou never wilt fail of delight;
As the monkeys by day
Will chatter away;
And the tigers howl music at night!
That a fight is a feast;
And as no man, indeed, can be thinner;
Thou shalt have—not a pullet,
But a dainty hot bullet,
And a pike for thy teeth, after dinner!
And he means it, when Neptune is calmer—
Pitt will send him a d*mn'd bitter pill
From his fortress, the castle of Walmer!
Unfortunately for the credit of his majesty's band of music, it is not composed of musicians, but of people of mean occupations, who receive the salaries; and hire, for a trifling sum, performers to fiddle for them.—Lord Salisbury knows all about it.
EPISTLE IX.
The great Mister Squibb in the chair—
Who became a grand bear, from a cub—
Important in look as lord may'r:
A great un-deciding decider;
Very rarely a subject of praise;
But oft of a wicked derider!
And seldom concludes in a minute:
And whose wig might as well in a cause
Be employ'd, as the head that is in it!
The magic that waits upon place—
Where the note of the owl is sublime,
And sheer grease a fine sample of grace!—
To the bench let black Mulciber move;
Lo! his tools into consequence hop,
And his sledge is the sceptre of Jove!
A most solemn and sanctified look!
‘Pray inform us all, what you suppose
Is our s*v---gn's complaint, Mister Puke!’
Of opinions, I'm not a free giver;
But, I think, that a child with a bib
Must pronounce the disease in the liver!
Whom no death of a patient affrights:
‘Mister Puke, you and I differ wide—
'Tis no more in the liver than lights.’
‘Though your wisdom was never suspected;
If I know any thing of my trade,
Mister Gripe, 'tis the liver's affected.’
With a smile, and a squint, and a leer—
Now Puke, in a rage at this wipe,
Thought of dealing a box on the ear!
And possessing some love for his hide,
He was forc'd in his bowels to burn,
And submit, to Dame Prudence, Miss Pride.
A present, not ev'ry man's lot!—
How easier to bear a rebuke,
Than a sword in the heart or a shot!
When affronted—wild, panting for blood!
Very strange, that a lady so nice
Should prefer such indelicate food!
Master Gripe, or to prate or to kill;—
Allow me the freedom to say—
Thou art vox et præterea nil!’
Master Puke, that redounds to thy glory?
Goose gabbling—a jack-ass's braying!—
To talk Latin—mere nugæ canoræ!’
Indeed, words not in flattery rich—
Gripe talk'd loudly of pulling a nose;
Master Puke talk'd of kicking a breech!
Not fig for a pig, or a porter:
Could I catch thee but once in my shop,
I would pound thee to dust in my mortar.’—
‘I scorn, like a blackguard to wrestle;
Yet, Gripe, had thy head any brain,
I would dash it all out with my pestle!’
To set those hot matters to rights—
They drank friends—and no longer was heard—
The dispute between liver and lights.—
(As labour and I don't agree)
To my pen a small respite to give—
And indulge in a pinch of rappee.
Up rose, on his legs, Master Sly:
And thus to the chairman he said—
Whilst ‘Hear him! hear! hear! was the cry.
Very feeble—exceedingly, sir—
It has not a man that can speak—
Not a tongue on a topic to stir!
Fit to join with his wife in debate;
Prescribe a child's physic and food—
But he should not prescribe for a state.
I allow him without hesitation—
And of tea, too, it is my belief,
There is no sounder judge in the nation
And make a most excellent teacher;
Nay more—make a decent divine,
And, per-haps—prove a popular preacher!
Of political, sharp, penetrations—
In the school of experience, sir, taught;
Well vers'd in the int'rests of nations:
Scorns to creep, spaniel-like, to disgrace;
Who, firm in his virtue, disdains
To enrich an old cat, for his place.
Of freedom, the glorious defender;
Not a fellow of infinite prate—
Not a noisy and bullying pretender.
For poor liberty laying the snare;
Affected no more by her cries,
Than a poacher, by squeaks of a hare.
Against men who may smile at his name,
Who fancies the praise of each tool
Nothing less than the plaudit of Fame.
His neck to the axe would submit,
To bless it—to snatch it from fate;
And that man!—is the great William Pitt!
And pawn for the realm his last shirt;
Too virtuous to make civil list
The fount of corruption and dirt!—
The pilot who weather'd the storm!
Good man! who ne'er promis'd the nation
A thing which he did not perform!—
Great man!—not a doit in his fob!
Great man, with his conscience content,
Retiring as poor as poor Job!—
He wish'd not for mountains of pelf!
He wish'd for his country's salvation—
He never once thought of himself!
Shall be lost! into atoms shall split!
While, tow'ring in triumph sublime,
Through the foam, moves the great William Pitt!
Of Venus, ne'er seen in the school—
An animal, rare in our isle—
Heav'n grant that he mayn't be a mule!’
Down solemnly sat Master Sly;
When lo! of a diff'rent persuasion,
Up rose, in much form, Dicky Dry:—
Just deliver'd by good Mister Sly,
Demonstrates how well he can preach—
His assumptions, I beg to deny.
To be florid, and roundly assert—
With irony, names to bespatter;
And characters cover with dirt.
Full of point, sir, I freely admit;
But, sir, the distinction is great,
Very great, between wisdom and wit!
So ill is the character suited;
Mister Sly may have found out his port—
Not the talents and virtues imputed.
Poor youth! not a brief in his bag!
There he look'd very small—very small!
Not a client to make his tongue wag!
Busy then as the Devil in a storm,
Attempting poor gudgeons to hook
With a bait—a fine bait, call'd reform!
Pretty letters to Sharman they wrote!
Sir, I quickly should visit Lob's pound,
Should I dare ev'n a passage to quote!
Should be trying of handcuffs a pair;
When his honour would teach me a tune—
Bread and water—a fav'rite old air.
Arriv'd at the summit of power;
What's reform?—Oh! a d---nable sin—
A dæmon, from that very hour.
(No matter, rain, sun-shine, or storm),
Were to hunt, and, whenever they found,
To strangle that vermin reform!
Take a peep at his pretty vagaries—
His rare engines for calming the nation—
Messieurs Reeves and mild Governor Aris!
So ready some comfort to give us;
When we open'd our mouths with complaint,
His gaols open'd theirs to receive us!
Sad scene of sad-ir-recollection—
Where tongues with much liberty ran,
And dealt in most saucy reflection.
Great pity, indeed!—I repeat it,
That a yesterday's action or tale,
To day, one should cleanly forget it!—
What a day of proud triumph for foes!
How nimbly the gem reputation
Was going, that day, to the crows!
Which a deal to his glory redounds—
If the huntsman was lean, we are sure
The lean Nimrod well fatten'd his hounds!
Never courted the smiles of the ladies—
Sweet Joseph! not woman allure!—
What a comical sort of a blade 'tis!
Is rather an odd sort of whim;
But I never should wonder, not I,
If the women all scamper'd from him!
For candour I always revere—
And if Fame ever mention'd one act;
'Twas in whispers no mortal could hear!
On this head he had better been mum;
Wisdom looks on that list with a stare!—
But no more on that subject, sir—hum!
Whose virtues and talents surprise!
Not of wretched mortality's make;
But sent us, express from the skies!—
The world, in opinion, must join;
And pronounce, with one voice, that the sky,
Like Houndsditch, pass'd counterfeit coin!’
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||