ELEGY TO THE KING.
The Poet informs his Majesty of a Rumour of great things having been done for him at Court, and of his awkward Situation in Consequence of that Rumour arising from the teazing Visits of Friends and Creditors; and supplicates his Majesty's gracious Attention to the Subject, and to relieve his Anxiety.
O King! the wondrous changes in the state
Engage these curious eyes of mine, to see
If Madam Fortune means to change my fate;
That is, if ministers have thought of me.
Soon as the post arrives, I seize the papers;
As much for place my appetite is whetted—
In vain! and then I fall into the vapours,
And think it hard my name is not gazetted.
Friends have pour'd in—‘Ah! Peter, my old boy!
The old jade Fortune has been kind at last—
Joy! joy!—Pindaricus—we give thee joy—
Well, well, the loaves and fishes come at last.’
In vain I tell them, that 'tis no such thing,
And represent it as an idle rumour:—
‘Poh! Peter, thou art joking, our good king
Forgives a jest, and loves a bit of humour.’
‘Sirs! what d'ye mean? I've nought, upon my soul’—
‘What! not a hint? no message? ah! no letter?
Soon shall we hear thy coach's thunder roll—
Credat Judæus! Peter, we know better!’
The mad ex-courtiers cry, ‘thou old black sheep,
Thy rhiming sins will never be forgiv'n:
In peace in this world ne'er expect to sleep;
Nay more, expect not to make peace with Heav'n!’
Bonfires have also blaz'd, lit up by people,
Whose patience, almost lost, for years has tarried;
The bells too, nearly cracking the old steeple,
Pealing as though the poet were just married.
The marrow-bones and cleavers have been here,
To pay a compliment upon my pension:
‘Ah! butchers,’ I have whisper'd in their ear,
‘Fudge! downright fudge! mere humbug—sheer invention.’
The cook too, with his petit soupé bills,
For some dear Lais, fond of pretty picking;
Who, fair as Hebe, just like Hebe fills,
So fond of oyster sauce and a broild chicken.
The pot-boy soon, and tailor too, I fear,
Will pay their court: the barber too, the prig,
I make no doubt, will presently appear,
Inquiring how I lik'd my last new wig.
And, ah! the cobbler too has sought my room,
To compliment the poet and his muse,
Quite dissipated all his former gloom,
With smiles presenting ‘a small bill for shoes.’
The little robins, seldom seen before,
Seem twittering gratulation to the poet;
Wagtails and sparrows too, surround my door,
Chirp pleasure, and the cocks in concert crow it.
Ev'n from its hole, beside my straw-stuff'd bed,
A poor starv'd mouse, who hears these sounds of Babel,
Pokes forth, with seeming joy, his little head,
To spy if any thing is on the table!
‘Poor mouse,’ I sigh, ‘thy face must still be lean,
Like mine, since nothing has been done for me:
How canst thou, though thy appetite be keen,
Expect that something should be done for thee’
Thus has this diabolical report,
Plung'd your poor poet in a sea of trouble;
Thus have the fancied honours of the court,
Deceiv'd and got me in a horrid hobble.
Dread sir, your bard's ambition soars not high,
To take Pitt's place, or join the privy-council;
But yet a warbling goldfinch, such as I,
Might peck some hemp-seed—taste a little groundsel.
Yes, sire, this mortifies and makes me sad,
Pleas'd should I be to meet your high commands;
Beyond a doubt I should be vastly glad,
To join the royal circles, and kiss hands.
Then, sir, permit the bard t'approach the throne,
To ask if this intelligence be true;
The world proclaims it with the firmest tone,
Yet none can tell his fortune sir, like you.
