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

The Bard that oft to Love has pour'd his Lays,
And tun'd to Phyllidas the Harp of Praise;
(For lo, mere Touchwood, form'd of fond desire,
A sparkling eye could set his Heart on fire;)
With deep reluctance now assumes the rod,
To punish that fair Master-piece of God.

Few are the men that feel the soul's Queen-passion,
Call'd Love, have scap'd from Lady-fascination.
How few the Josephs that adorn the times!
Let truth be told: ev'n I, the Man of Rhymes,
Have oft approach'd the vortex of Seduction,
Stalk'd the wild precipices of Destruction.
A simple, nibbling Mouse (and nearly taken);
Much have I marvell'd, how I sav'd my bacon.

Heav'ns, what a dire confusion Beauty makes!
The Horse Guards tremble, and Old Windsor shakes.
Like Bees, the Mob around Saint Stephen's swarms;
And every street and alley feels alarms:

434

Men, women, coaches, gigs, each other jostle;
And thou the cause of all this horrid bustle!
Hotels and tap-rooms sound with mingled din,
And every coffee-house is on the grin.
From morn to eve, from eve to midnight dark,
Nought strikes the ear but ‘Duke and Mistress Clarke!’
Nay, too, the Parrot, and the simple Starling,
Cry from their cages nought but ‘Duke and Darling!’
In vain the heavy horse parade the town;
Neigh bold defiance, while their riders frown:
The Mob surveys them just like braying hacks,
From door to door with dogs' meat on their backs.

Each day we hear a miserable tale:
See, by the Commons, Clavering sent to jail;
Dismiss'd the staff, in durance vile to dwell,
And join the piteous sighs of Sanden's cell!—
See poor O'Meara, with an alter'd face,
Who preach'd to Majesty with Paul-like grace!
He damns the ladder of that exaltation,
And blushes now to meet a congregation.
‘Farewell,’ he sighs, although so vastly clever,
‘Farewell the Mitre and Lawn-sleeves for ever!
Yet not that loss alone calls forth my tears;
The Hussy robs my life of twenty years.’—
Behold the Tonyns, all with ire inflam'd;
All, for the silly Major, all asham'd!
And see, Miss Taylor, to thine arts a fool,
Has found a Spunging-house, and lost her School.
The mighty Castlereagh himself may fall,
The pompous pillar that supports us all:
I hear the crack, and mourn it most sincerely;
And Ireland too will mourn, who loves him dearly:
Ireland, to Castlereagh that so much owes;
Her Union,—present, and her past, repose;

435

And fine fertility, the eye that greets;
For docks and grass adorn old Dublin's streets.

Rais'd by thy witcheries, to fright our eyes,
Ghosts of long-buried Depredations rise;
But, thanks to our good Ministerial train,
Will soon be banish'd to their tombs again.
In Sparta thus confusion reign'd and strife,
When wanton Paris stole the Monarch's wife.

What Imp of Darkness whisper'd in thine ear,
To force from every loyal eye a tear,
‘Rush on the world, and, with unblushing face,
Obscure the glories of the Brunswick race?’
Deceiv'd by thee, has dauntless Wardle dar'd
To take the lordly Lion by the beard:
Soon on his head the Demagogue shall draw
(Or Justice sleeps) the thunder of his paw;
And Folkstone, with his democratic pipe,
Shall rue his rage, and gasp beneath his gripe.
Sir Francis too will feel not soft rebuke,
Though guarded by the sevenfold shield of Tooke:
Patroclus' valiant self to hell was thrown,
Though in th' immortal arms of Peleus' son.
Nay, gifted with the swallow of a whale,
Ev'n I, the Bard of Bards, believ'd thy tale;
But now the phalanx of the Court I join,
And see black forg'ry lurk in ev'ry line.

Hark! Whitbread opens; all the Patriots cheer him:
The walls re-echo, ‘Hear him, hear him, hear him!’
Charm'd with each word, to Whitbread's pow'rs they look,
And mark in Fancy's eye a flying Duke.
Thus, 'mid the wood when Snowball gives his tongue
(Snowball, the truest of the tuneful throng),

436

The peal begins, the sounds of rapture flow:
‘Hark, hark to Snowball! go to Snowball, go.’
Horns, hounds, and men, the hills with triumph stun;
Sly Reynard now is seen upon the run.

Now to the City let me turn mine eyes,
Where foam the waves, and winds of discord rise.
Fir'd by th' electric speech of Harvey Coombe,
The Liv'ry-tribes with plaudits shake the room.
Fir'd by the fuse of Waithman's elocution,
With Babel tongues they thunder ‘Resolution;’
With Babel tongues insult the poor Lord Mayor,
And put great Gog and Magog on the stare.
In vain he tries to tell a simple tale
(For Sprats may sing Te Deum o'er a Whale):
Regardless of gold chain, and pomp, and place,
They howl him home, in sorrow and disgrace.
Thus, when the Bird of Wisdom leaves his bow'r,
O'er hills and valleys in broad day to tow'r;
The small pert Tenants of the Hedge rush out,
To put the solemn Trav'ller to the rout;
Magpies, and Jays, and Ravens, Rooks and Crows,
Spit in his face, and pull him by the nose:
Unheard he hoots; the chattering, croaking train,
Tumultuous, drive him to his hole again.

Dear Delicacy, at thy shrine I bend;
Oh, haste thee, Goddess, and our manners mend:
A Gothic race to some refinement raise;
For ev'n our Quality have dirty ways.
Much like French Cooks; who, though in omlets great,
Spit in the frying-pan to prove its heat;
And, spreading rolls in winter (mode uncouth!),
First warm the slice of butter in the mouth.

437

Too prone are Mob to pull their Princes down,
And smother with their greasy Hats a Crown.
With hawk-like eye, they wait an evil hour
To strike, and paralyze the arm of Pow'r:
To hold a proud dominion o'er the Court;
With sacred Freedom, like Napoleon, sport;
Whose wanton rage has handcuff'd Europe's Kings,
And put her Princes all in leading-strings.—
Sad knaves, no gratitude their bosom warms;
Forgot the glory of the Hero's arms:
Forgot the hosts that bled beneath his lance,
Who Britain sav'd, and curb'd the pride of France;
And stripp'd, in spite of cold and stormy weather,
The crowing Gallic Cock of every feather.

Shall Tape-men, Snuff-men, and such servile fellows,
Wild roaring, of Sedition blow the bellows?
Shall Salt, and Fish, and Paper, low-bred crew,
Instruct the Lord's Vicegerents what to do;
Stop of an Orator the opening weazon,
And banish Members without rhyme or reason?—
How dare the rogues indulge the lawless riot?
Ev'n let them gorge their turtle, and lie quiet.
What is their province, but to eat and drink?
How dare they have the impudence to think?
Presuming Imps, that fancy a dull Cit
Possesses sense and breeding, taste and wit,
Like those bright Bucks that grace a birth-night ball,
And sauntering lounge through Bond Street and Pall Mall!
As well might Dogs, their sprawling legs that sport,
Presume to dance a minuet at Court.

The Man of Livery, matters rarely minces;
Hear what the lev'ller says of foreign Princes:

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‘Cross, cross the breed, degenerating fast,
Or ouran outangs they must sink at last.’

Perchance, of Courts, too high we prize the scenes;
The nods of Monarchs, and the dips of Queens:
And fancy fools that claim the Royal eyes,
In science deep, superlatively wise.
Yet is a reverence due to dips and nods,
Though not the gracious presents of the Gods.
True; little folks, that Royalty behold,
Are apt to think it of superior mould.—
As through a lane a mighty Monarch past,
A Village Maid her eyes of wonder cast
Broad on the form that Courtiers all adore;
(For Madge had never seen a King before.)
The Girl, exclaiming, to her cottage ran:
‘Look, Mother! Mother, look! the King's a man!’—

‘When Nature forms a Prince, she culls with care
The best materials for the Royal ware;
But when a subject, careless, takes her broom,
And makes him from the sweepings of the room.’
Such of Court-adulation is the song;
But Flattery often oils a Courtier's tongue.

‘Try'd in the crucible of Truth, behold,
The slander'd Youth shall come forth sterling Gold;
While thou shalt shock our sight, a motley mass,
A mixture vile of Brimstone and of Brass.’
Thus cry the Members of Administration,
Whose heads contain the talents of the Nation.
Hawkesb'ry and Castlereagh transcend all praise:
And Canning is the wonder of our days;
For though not French our Secretary speak,
He thunders Latin, and Bœotian Greek;

439

Frights with grand phrase the Plenipoes around;
And, when he fails in sense, succeeds by sound:
Like Esop's long-ear'd Animal, whose din
Perform'd such wonders in the Lion's skin.—
Such are the Pilots Heav'n has deign'd to form,
To steer the old State Vessel through the Storm.

At this, thou bidd'st the Bard and Verse go whistle:
Then read, and tremble at, my next Epistle.

The two wooden Giants in Guildhall.