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

It is necessary to inform thee, that his Majesty actually discovered, some time ago, as he sat at table, a louse on his plate. The emotion occasioned by the unexpected appearance of such a guest can be better imagined than described.

An edict was, in consequence, passed for shaving the cooks, scullions, &c. and the unfortunate Louse condemned to die.

Such is the foundation of the Lousiad. With what degree of merit the poem is executed, the uncritical as well as critical reader will decide.

The ingenious Author, who ought to be allowed to know somewhat of the matter, hath been heard privately to declare, that in his opinion the Batrachomyomachia of Homer, the Secchia Rapita of Tassoni, the Lutrin of Boileau, the Dispensary of Garth, and the Rape of the Lock of Pope, are not to be compared to it,—and to exclaim at the same time with the modest assurance of an author—

Cedite, scriptores Romani; cedite, Graii—
Nil ortum in terris, Lousiadâ, melius.

Which, for the sake of the mere English reader, is thus beautifully translated:—

Roman and Grecian authors, great and small,
The author of the Lousiad beats you all.

CANTO I.

THE ARGUMENT.

The Proëmium—Description of the Louse's Fall—History of his Wife and Family—A wonderfully sublime Simile of a Cow—Discovery of the Louse by his Majesty—The King's Horror and Astonishment on seeing him—equal to that he felt at Mr. Fox's Attempt on Prerogative—as Mr. Burke's dreadful Defalcation of the Royal Table—equal to that he felt in a Tumble from his Horse—equal to the Horrors of disappointed Venison Eaters—of a Serjeant at Law—of a country Girl—of a Petit-Maître saluted by a Chimney-sweeper—of the Devil when pinched by St. Dunstan's red-hot Tongs—of Lady Worsley—of Sam House the Patriot—of Billy Ramus—of Kynaston, the 'Squire of Leatherhead—of the perjured Christopher Atkinson—of the Prince of Asturias—of the King of Spain—of Dr. Johnson, and Dr. Wilson—Description of his Majesty's Heart—most naturally and wittily compared to a Dumpling—His Majesty's Speech to the Queen—Her Majesty's most gracious and short Answer—The short Speech of the beautiful Princesses—His Majesty's rough Rejoinder—The Fear that came on the

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Queen and her Children—beautiful Apostrophe to the Princesses—The King's Speech to the Pages—The King unable to eat—The Queen able—The King's Orders about the Louse—Description of Dixon the Cook Major—his Speech—A Speech of the Cooks—Fine Simile of Bubble and Squeak; thought more sublime than that of Homer's Black Pudding—Speech of a Scullion—of a Scullion's Mate—of a Turnbroche—Noble Comparison—of a Tartar Monarch after he hath dined—A long and wise Speech of a Yeoman of the Kitchen—The Cook's Approbation of the Yeoman's Speech—Grand Simile of a Barn and its Lodgers set on Fire by Lightning—The concluding Speech of the Cook Major.

Prima Syracosio dignata est ludere versu
Nostra, nec erubuit sylvas habitare, Thalia.
Cum canerem reges et prælia, Cynthius aurem
Vellit et admonuit ------
VIRGIL.

I, who so lately in my lyric lays
Sung to the praise and glory of R. A.'s;
And sweetly tun'd to Love the melting line,
With Ovid's art, and Sappho's warmth divine;
Said, (nobly daring!) ‘Muse, exalt thy wings,
Love and the Sons of Canvass quit for Kings.’
Apollo, laughing at my powers of song,
Cry'd, ‘Peter Pindar prithee hold thy tongue.’
But I, like poets, self-sufficient grown,
Reply'd, ‘Apollo, prithee hold thy own.’

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The Louse I sing, who, from some head unknown,
Yet born and educated near a throne,
Dropp'd down—(so will'd the dread decree of fate),
With legs wide sprawling on the monarch's plate:
Far from the raptures of a wife's embrace,
Far from the gambols of a tender race,
Whose little feet he taught with care to tread
Amidst the wide dominions of the head;
Led them to daily food with fond delight,
And taught the tiny wand'rers where to bite;
To hide, to run, advance, or turn their tails,
When hostile combs attack'd, or vengeful nails:
Far from those pleasing scenes ordain'd to roam,
Like wise Ulysses, from his native home;
Yet, like that sage, though forc'd to roam and mourn,
Like him, alas! not fated to return,
Who, full of rags and glory, saw his boy
And wife again, and dog that died for joy.

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Down dropp'd the luckless louse, with fear appall'd,
And wept his wife and children as he sprawl'd.
Thus on a promontory's misty brow,
The poet's eye, with sorrow, saw a cow
Take leave abrupt of bullocks, goats, and sheep,
By tumbling headlong down the dizzy steep;
No more to reign a queen amongst the cattle,
And urge her rival beaux, the bulls, to battle;
She fell , rememb'ring ev'ry roaring lover,
With all her wild courants in fields of clover.
Now on his legs, amidst a thousand woes,
The louse, with judge-like gravity, arose;
He wanted not a motive to entreat him,
Beside the horror that the King might eat him.
The dread of gasping on the fatal fork,
Stuck with a piece of mutton, beef, or pork,
Or drowning 'midst the sauce in dismal dumps,
Was full enough to make him stir his stumps.
Vain hope of stealing unperceiv'd away!
He might as well have tarried where he lay.
Seen was this Louse, as with the royal brood
Our hungry king amus'd himself with food;
Which proves (though scarce believ'd by one in ten)
That kings have appetites like common men;
And that, like London aldermen and mayor,
They feed on solids less refin'd than air.
Paint, heav'nly Muse, the look, the very look,
That of the sov'reign's face possession took,
When first he saw the Louse, in solemn state,
Grave as a Spaniard, march across the plate!
Yet, could a Louse a British King surprise,
And like a pair of saucers stretch his eyes?
The little tenant of a mortal head,
Shake the great ruler of three realms with dread?
Good Lord! (as somebody sublimely sings)
What great effects arise from little things!
As many a loving swain and nymph can tell,
Who, following nature's law, have lov'd too well!

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Not with more horror did his eyes behold
Charles Fox, that cunning enemy of old,
When triumph hung upon his plotting brains,
And dear prerogative was just in chains:
Not with more horror did his eye-balls work
Convulsive on the patriot Burke,
When guilty of œconomy, the crime!
Edmund wide wander'd from the true sublime,
And, cat-like, watchful of the flesh and fish,
Cribb'd from the royal table many a dish—
Saw ev'ry slice of bread and butter cut,
Each apple told, and number'd ev'ry nut;
And gaug'd (compos'd upon no sneaking scale)
The monarch's belly like a cask of ale;
Convinc'd that, in his scheme of state-salvation,
To starve the palace, was to save the nation:
Not more aghast he look'd, when, 'midst the course,
He tumbled, in a stag-chase, from his horse,
Where all his nobles deem'd their monarch dead;
But, luckily, he pitch'd upon his head!

Not ven'son eaters at the vanish'd fat,
With stomachs wider than a quaker's hat:
Not with more horror Mr. Serjeant Pliant
Looks down upon an empty-handed client:
Not with more horror stares the rural maid,
By hopes, by fortune-tellers, dreams, betray'd,
Who sees her ticket a dire blank arise,
Too fondly thought the twenty-thousand prize,

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With which the simple damsel meant, no doubt,
To bless her faithful fav'rite, Colin Clout:

Not with more horror stares each lengthen'd feature,
Of some fine, fluttering, mincing petit maître,
When of a wanton chimney-sweeping wag
The beau's white vestment feels the sooty bag;
Not with more horror did the Devil look,
When Dunstan by the nose the dæmon took
(As gravely say our legendary songs),
And led him with a pair of red-hot tongs;
Not Lady Worsley, chaste as many a nun,
Look'd with more horror at Sir Richard's fun,
When rais'd on high to view her naked charms,
He held the peeping captain in his arms;
Like David, that most am'rous little dragon,
Ogling sweet Bethsheba without a rag on:

Not more the great Sam House with horror star'd,
By mob affronted to the very beard;
Whose impudence (enough to damn a jail)
Snatch'd from his waving hand his fox's tail,
And stuff'd it, 'midst his thunders of applause,
Full in the centre of Sam's gaping jaws,
That forcing down his patriotic throat,
Of ‘Fox and freedom!’ stopp'd the glorious note:

Not with more horror Billy Ramus star'd,
When Puff , the prince's hair-dresser, appear'd

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Amidst their eating-room, with dread design
To sit with pages, and with pages dine!

Not with more horror Gloster's duchess star'd,
When (blest in metaphor!) the King declar'd,
That not of all her mongrel breed, one whelp
Should in the royal kennel ever yelp:

Not more that man so sweet, so unprepar'd,
The gentle 'squire of Leatherhead , was scar'd,
When, after prayers so good, and rare a sermon,
He found his front attack'd by fierce Miss Vernon;
Who meant (Thalestris-like, disdaining fear!)
To pour her foot in thunder on his rear;
Who, in God's house , without one grain of grace,
Spit, like a vixen, in his worship's face;
Then shook her nails, as sharp as tailor's shears,
That itch'd to scrape acquaintance with his ears:

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Not Atkinson with stronger terror started
(Somewhat afraid, perchance, of being carted)
When justice, a sly dame, one day thought fit
To pay her serious compliments to Kit;
Ask'd him a few short questions about corn,
And whisper'd, she believ'd he was forsworn;
Then hinted, that he probably would find,
That though she sometimes wink'd, she was not blind:

Not more Asturias' Princess look'd affright,
At breakfast, when her spouse, the unpolite,
Hurl'd, madly heedless both of time and place,
A cup of boiling coffee in her face,
Because the fair one eat a butter'd roll,
On which the selfish prince had fix'd his soul:
Not more astonish'd look'd that prince, to find
His royal father to his face unkind;
Who, to the cause of injur'd beauty won,
Seiz'd on the proud proboscis of his son
(Just like a tiger of the Libyan shade,
Whose furious claws the helpless deer invade),
And led him, till that son its durance freed,
By asking pardon for the brutal deed;
Led him thrice round the room (the story goes),
Who follow'd with great gravity his nose,
Resolv'd at first (for Spaniards are stiff stuff)
To ask no pardon, though the snout came off:
Not more astonish'd look'd that Spanish king ,
Whene'er he miss'd a snipe upon the wing:

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Not more astonish'd look'd that King of Spain,
To see his gun-boats blazing on the main:
Not Doctor Johnson more, to hear the tale
Of vile Piozzi's marrying Madam Thrale;
Nor Doctor Wilson, child of am'rous folly,
When young Mac Clyster bore off Kate Macaulay .

What dire emotions shook the Monarch's soul!
Just like two billiard balls his eyes 'gan roll,
Whilst anger all his royal heart possess'd,
That, swelling, wildly bump'd against his breast,
Bounc'd at his ribs with all its might so stout,
As resolutely bent on jumping out,
T'avenge, with all its pow'rs the dire disgrace,
And nobly spit in the offender's face.
Thus a large dumpling to its cell confin'd
(A very apt allusion to my mind),
Lies snug, until the water waxeth hot,
Then bustles 'midst the tempest of the pot:
In vain!—the lid keeps down the child of dough,
That bouncing, tumbling, sweating, rolls below.

‘How, how? what, what?—what's that, what's that?’ he cries,
With rapid accent, and with staring eyes—
‘Look there, look there—what's got into my house?
A louse, God bless us! louse, louse, louse, louse, louse.’
The queen look'd down, and then exclaim'd, ‘Good la?’
And with a smile the dappled stranger saw;

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Each princess strain'd her lovely neck to see,
And, with another smile, exclaim'd. ‘Good me!’
‘Good la! Good me! is that all you can say?’
(Our gracious monarch cry'd, with huge dismay),
‘What! what a silly vacant smile take place
Upon your majesty's and children's face,
Whilst that vile louse (soon, soon to be unjointed!)
Affront's the presence of the Lord's anointed!’

Dash'd, as if tax'd with hell's most deadly sins,
The queen and princesses drew in their chins,
Look'd prim, and gave each exclamation o'er,
And, prudent damsels, ‘word spake never more.’
Sweet maids! the beauteous boast of Britain's isle,
Speak—were those peerless lips forbid to smile?
Lips! that the soul of simple nature moves—
Form'd by the bounteous hands of all the Loves!
Lips of delight! unstained by satire's gall!
Lips! that I never kiss'd—and never shall.

Now, to each trembling page, a poor mute mouse,
The pious monarch cry'd, ‘Is this your louse?’
‘Ah! sire,’ replied each page with pig-like whine,
‘An't please your majesty, it is not mine.’
‘Not thine?’ the hasty monarch cry'd again,
‘What, what? who's, who's then? who the devil's then?’

Now at this sad event the sovereign, sore,
Unhappy, could not take a mouthful more;
His wiser queen, her gracious stomach studying,
Stuck most devoutly to the beef and pudding;
For Germans are a very hearty sort,
Whether begot in hog-styes or a court,
Who bear (which shows their hearts are not of stone)
The ills of others better than their own.

Grim terror seiz'd the souls of all the pages,
Of different sizes, and of different ages;
Frighten'd about their pensions or their bones,
They on each other gap'd, like Jacob's sons!

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Now to a page, but which we can't determine,
The growling monarch gave the plate and vermin:
‘Watch well that blackguard animal,’ he cries,
‘That soon or late, to glut my vengeance dies!
Watch, like a cat, that vile marauding louse,
Or George shall play the devil in the house.
Some spirit whispers, that to cooks I owe
The precious visitor that crawls below;
Yes, yes! the whisp'ring spirit tells me true,
And soon shall vengeance all their locks pursue.
Cooks, scourers, scullions too, with tails of pig,
Shall lose their coxcomb curls, and wear a wig.’
Thus roar'd the king—not Hercules so big;
And all the palace echo'd—‘Wear a wig!’

Fear, like an ague, struck the pale-nos'd cooks,
And dash'd the beef and mutton from their looks,
Whilst from each cheek the rose withdrew its red,
And Pity blubber'd oe'r each menac'd head.

But, lo! the great cook-major comes! his eyes
Fierce as the redd'ning flame that roasts and fries;
His cheeks like bladders with high passion glowing,
Or like a fat Dutch trumpeter's when blowing:
A neat white apron his huge corpse embrac'd,
Tied by two comely strings about his waist;
An apron that he purchas'd with his riches,
To guard from hostile grease his velvet breeches—
An apron that in Monmouth-street high hung,
Oft to the winds with sweet deportment swung.

‘Ye sons of dripping, on your major look!
(In sounds of deep-ton'd thunder cry'd the cook)
By this white apron, that no more can hope
To join the piece in Mister Inkle's shop;
That oft has held the best of palace meat,
And from this forehead wip'd the briny sweat;
I swear this head disdains to loose its locks;
And those that do not tell them they are blocks.

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Whose head, my cooks, such vile disgrace endures?
Will it be yours, or yours, or yours, or yours?
Ten thousand crawlers in that head be hatch'd,
For ever itching but be never scratch'd!
Then may the charming perquisite of grease
The mammon of your pocket ne'er increase;—
Grease! that so frequently hath brought you coin,
From veal, pork, mutton, and the great sir loin:
O brothers of the spit, be firm as rocks—
Lo! to no king on earth I yield these locks.
Few are my hairs behind, by age endear'd!
But, few or many, they shall not be shear'd.

Sooner shall Madam Schwellenberg , the jade,
Yield up her fav'rite perquisites of trade,
Give up her majesty's old cloaks and gowns,
Caps, petticoats, and aprons, without frowns:
She! who for ever studies mischief—She!
Who soon will be as busy as a bee,
To get the liberty of locks enslav'd,
And ev'ry harmless cook and scullion shav'd—
She! if by chance a British servant maid,
By some insinuating tongue betray'd,
Induc'd the fair forbidden fruit to taste,
Grows, luckless, somewhat bigger in the waist;
Rants, storms, swears, turns the penitent to door,
Grac'd with the pretty names of b---ch and w---,
To range a prostitute upon the town,
Or, if the weeping wretch think better, drown:—
But, if a German spider-brusher fails,
Whose nose grows sharper, and whose shape tells tales;
Hush'd is th' affair!—the queen and she, good dame,
Both club their wits to hide the growing shame;
To wed her, get some fool—I mean some wise man;
Then dub the prudent cuckold an exciseman:
She! who hath got more insolence and pride,
God mend her heart! than half the world beside:

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She! who, of guttling fond, stuffs down more meat,
Heav'n help her stomach! than ten men can eat!
Ten men!—aye, more than ten—the hungry hag!—
Why, zounds! the woman's stomach's like a bag:
She! who will swell the uproar of the house,
And tell the king damn'd lies about the louse;
When probably that louse (a vile old trull!)
Was born and nourish'd in her own grey skull:

Sooner the room shall buxom Nanny quit,
Where oft she charms her master with her wit—
Tells tales of ev'ry body, ev'ry thing,
From honest courtiers to the thieves who swing—
Waits on her sov'reign while he reads dispatches,
And wisely winds up state affairs or watches:

Sooner the prince (may Heav'n his income mend!)
Shall quit his bottle, mistress, or his friend—
Laugh at the drop on Misery's languid eye,
And hear her sinking voice without a sigh;
Break for the wealth of realms his sacred word,
And let the world write coward on his sword:
Sooner shall ham from fowl and turkey part,
And stuffing leave a calf's or bullock's heart:
Sooner shall toasted cheese take leave of mustard,
And from the codlin tart be torn the custard:
Sooner these hands the glorious haunch shall spoil,
And all our melted butter turn to oil:
Sooner our pious king, with pious face,
Sit down to dinner without saying grace;
And ev'ry night salvation pray'rs put forth,
For Portland, Fox, Burke, Sheridan, and North:
Sooner shall fashion order frogs and snails,
And dishclouts stick eternal to our tails!
Let George view ministers with surly looks,
Abuse 'em, kick 'em—but revere his cooks!—
‘What, lose our locks!’—reply'd the roasting crew,
To barbers yield 'em?—Damme if we do!

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Be shav'd like foreign dogs one daily meets,
Naked and blue, and shiv'ring in the streets?
And from the palace be asham'd to range,—
For fear the world should think we had the mange;
By taunting boys made weary of our lives,
Broad grinning wh---es, and ridiculing wives!’

‘Rouse, Opposition!’ roar'd a tipsey cook,
With hands a-kimbo, and bubonic look:
‘'Tis she alone our noble curls can keep—
Without her, ministers would fall asleep:
'Tis she who makes great men—our Foxes, Pitts,
And sharpens, whet-stone like, the nation's wits:
Knocks off your knaves and fools, however great,
And, broom-like, sweeps the cobwebs of the state:
In casks like sulphur that expels bad air,
And makes, like thunder-claps, foul weather fair;
Acts like a gun, that, fir'd at gather'd soot,
Preserves the chimney, and the house to boot:
Or, like a school-boy's whip, that keeps up tops,
The sinking realm, by flagellation, props.
Our monarch must not be indulg'd too far;
Besides I love a little bit of war.
Whether to crop our curls he boasts a right.
Or not, I do not care the louse's bite;
But then, no force-work! No! no force, by Heav'n?
Cooks! yeomen! scourers! we will not be driv'n.
Try but to force a pig against his will,
Behold? the sturdy gentleman stands still!
Or, p'rhaps (his pow'r to let the driver know)
Gallops the very road he should not go—
No force for me!—The French, the fawning dogs,
E'en let them lose their freedom, and eat frogs—
Damme! I hate each pale soupe-maigre thief—
Give me my darling liberty and beef.’

He spoke—and from his jaws a lump he slid,
And, swearing, manful flung to earth his quid.
Then swelling pride forbade his tongue to rest,
Whilst wild emotions labour'd in his breast—
Now sounds confus'd his anger made him mutter,
And, when he thought on shaving, curses sputter.

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Such is the sound (the simile's not weak)
Form'd by what mortals bubble call, and squeak
When 'midst the frying-pan, in accents savage,
The beef so surly quarrels with the cabbage.

‘Be shav'd!’ a scullion loud began to bellow,
Loud as a parish bull, or poor Othello,
Plac'd by that rogue Iago upon thorns,
With all the horrors of a pair of horns:
Loud as th' exciseman , struggling for his life,
And panting in a most inglorious strife;
When on his face the smuggling princess sprung
And, cat-like clawing, to his visage clung.

‘Be shav'd like pigs!’ rejoin'd the scullion's mate,
His dishclout shaking, and his pot-crown'd pate—
‘What barber dares it, let him watch his nose
And, curse me! dread the rage of these ten toes.’
So saying, with an oath to raise one's hair,
He kick'd with threat'ning foot the yielding air.

Thus have I seen an ass (baptiz'd a jack)
Grac'd by a chimney-sweeper on his back,

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Prance, snort, and fling his heels with liberality,
In imitation of a horse of quality.

‘Be shav'd!’ an understrapper turnbroche cry'd,
In all the foaming energy of pride—
‘Zounds! let us take his majesty in hand!
The king shall find he lives at our command:
Yes; let him know, with all his wond'rous state,
His teeth and stomach on our wills shall wait:
We rule the platters, we command the spit,
And George shall have his mess when we think fit;
Stay till ourselves shall condescend to eat,
And then, if we think proper, have his meat.’

Thus having fed on ven'son rather coarse,
A colt, or crocodile, or dish of horse,
The Tartar quits his smoaky hut with scorn,
Sounds to the kingdoms of the world his horn:
And treating monarchs like his slaves or swine,
Informs them they have liberty to dine.

‘Heav'ns!’ cry'd a yeoman, with much learning grac'd,
In books as well as meat, a man of taste,
Who read with vast applause the daily news,
And kept a close acquaintance with the Muse;
Conundrums, rebus made—acrostic, riddle,
And sung his dying sonnets to the fiddle,
When Love, with cruel dart, the murd'ring thief!
His heart had spitted, like a piece of beef:
‘Are these,’ he said, ‘of kings, the whims and jokes?
Then kings can be as mad as common folks.
Dame Nature, when a prince's head she makes,
No more concern about the inside takes,
Than of the inside of a bug's or bat's,
A flea's, a grasshopper's, a cur's, a cat's!
As careless as the artist, trunks designing,
About the trifling circumstance of lining;
Whether of Cumberland he use the plays,
Miss Burney's novels, or Miss Seward's lays;

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Or sacred dramas of Miss Hannah More,
Where all the Nine with little Moses, snore;
Or good 'Squire Pindar's odes, or Warton's stick,
Or Horace Walpole's doubts upon King Dick,
Who furious drives, at times, his old goose quill,
On Strawb'ry (reader) not th' Aonian Hill;
Whether he doom the royal speech to cling,
Or those of Lords and Commons to the King;
Where one begs money, and the others grant
So easy, freely, friendly, complaisant,
As if the cash were really all their own,
To purchase knick-knacks that disgrace a throne.
Ah, me! did people know what trifling things
Compose those idols of the earth, called kings,
Those counterparts of that important fellow,
The children's wonder—Signor Punchinello;
Who struts upon the stage his hour away;
His outside, gold—his inside, rags and hay;
No more as God's vicegerents would they shine,
Nor make the world cut throats for right divine.

‘Those lords of earth, at dinner, we have seen,
Sunk, by the merest trifles, with the spleen—
Oft for an ill-dress'd egg have heard them groan,
And seen them quarrel for a mutton bone:
At salt or vinegar, with passion, fume,
And kick dogs, chairs, and pages, round the room .

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‘Alas! how often have we heard them grunt,
Whene'er the rushing rain hath spoil'd a hunt!
Their sanguine wishes cross'd, their spirits clogg'd,
Mere riding dishclouts homeward they have jogg'd;
Poor imps! the sport (with all their pride and pow'r)
Of nature's diuretic stream—a show'r!
This we, the actors in the farce, perceive;
But this the distant world will ne'er believe,
Who fancy kings to all the virtues born,
Ne'er by the vulgar storms of passion torn;
But blest with souls so calm, like summer seas,
That smile to heaven, unruffl'd by a breeze:
Who think that kings, on wisdom always fed,
Speak sentences like Bacon's brazen head;
Hear from their lips the vilest nonsense fall,
Yet think some heav'nly spirit dictates all;
Conceive their bodies of celestial clay,
And, though all ailment, sacred from decay;
To nods and smiles their gaping homage bring,
And thank their God their eyes have seen a king;
Lord! in the circle when our royal master
Pours out his words as fast as hail, or faster,
To country 'squires, and wives of country 'squires;
Like stuck pigs staring, how each oaf admires!
Lo! ev'ry syllable becomes a gem!
And if, by chance, the monarch cough, or hem,
Seiz'd with the symptoms of a deep surprize,
Their joints with rev'rence tremble, and their eyes
Roll wonder first; then, shrinking back with fear,
Would hide behind the brains, were any there.
How taken is this idle world by show!
Birth, riches, are the Baals to whom we bow;
Preferring, with a soul as black as soot,
A rogue on horseback, to a saint on foot.
See France, see Portugal, Sicilia, Spain,
And mark the desert of each despot's brain;

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Whose tongues should never treat with taunts a fool;
Who prove that nothing is too mean to rule.
What could the prince, high tow'ring like a steeple,
Without the majesty of us the people?
Go, like the king of Babylon , to grass,
Or wander, like a beggar with a pass!
However modern kings may cooks despise,
Warriors and kings were cooks, or hist'ry lies—
Patroclus broil'd beef steaks to quell his hunger;
The mighty Agamemnon potted conger!—
And Charles of Sweden, 'midst his guns and drums,
Spread his own bread and butter with his thumbs.
Be shav'd!—No!—sooner pill'ries, jails, the stocks,
Shall pinch this corpse, than barbers snatch my locks.’

‘Well hast thou said,’ a scourer bold rejoin'd—
‘Damme! I love the man who speaks his mind.’
Then in his arms the orator he took,
And swore he was an angel of a cook.
Awhile he held him with a Cornish hug;
Then seiz'd, with glorious grasp, a pewter mug,
Whose ample womb nor cider held nor ale,
But nectar fit for Jove, and brew'd by Thrale.
‘A health to cooks!’ he cry'd, and wav'd the pot,
‘And he who sighs for titles is a sot—
Let dukes and lords the world in wealth surpass;
Yet many a lion's skin conceals an ass.
Lo! this is one amongst my golden rules,
To think the greatest men the greatest fools:
The great are judges of an opera song,
And fly a Briton's for a eunuch's tongue;
Thus idly squand'ring for a squawl their riches,
To faint with rapture at those cats in breeches.
Accept this truth from me, my lads—the man
Who first found out a spit or frying-pan,
Did ten times more towards the public good,
Than all the tawdry titles since the flood:
Titles! that kings may grant to asses, mules,
The scorn of sages, and the boast of fools.’

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He ended—All the cooks exclaim'd, ‘Divine!’
Then whisper'd one another, 'twas ‘damn'd fine!’
Thus spoke the scourer like a man inspir'd,
Whose speech the heroes of the kitchen fir'd:
Grooms, master scourers, scullions, scullions' mates,
With all the overseers of knives and plates,
Felt their brave souls like frisky cider work,
Whizzing in opposition to the cork:
Earth's potentates appear'd ignoble things,
And cooks of greater consequence than kings.
Such is the pow'r of words, where truth unites,
And such the rage that injur'd worth excites!
The scourer's speech, indeed, with reason blest,
Inflam'd with godlike ardour all the rest:
Thus if a barn heav'n's vengeful lightning draw,
The flame ethereal darts amongst the straw;
Doors, rafters, beams, owls, weazels, mice, and rats,
And (if unfortunately mousing) cats;
All feel the fierce devouring fire in turn,
And mingling in one conflagration, burn.

‘Sons of the spit,’ the major cry'd again,
‘Your noble speeches prove you blest with brain;
Brain! that Dame Nature gives not ev'ry head,
But fills the vast vacuity with lead!—
Yet ere for opposition we prepare,
And fight the glorious cause of heads of hair,
Methinks 'twould be but decent to petition,
And tell the king, with firmness, our condition:
Soon as our sad complaint he hears us utter,
His gracious heart may melt away like butter;
Fair mercy shine amidst our gloomy house,
And anger'd majesty forget the Louse.’

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

AS many people persist in their incredulity with respect to the attack made by the barbers, on the heads of the harmless cooks, I shall exhibit a list of the unhappy sufferers; it is the Palace list, and therefore as authentic as the Gazette.

A true List of the Shaved at Buckingham House.

Two master cooks
Three yeoman ditto
Four grooms
Three children
Two master scourers
Six under scourers
Six turnbroches
Two soil-carriers
Two door-keepers
Eight boys
Five pastry people
Eight silver scullery, for laughing at the cooks.

In all, fifty-one.

A young man, named John Bear, would not submit, and lost his place.

Telemachus.

Penelope.

Argus, for whose history see the Odyssey.

------ moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.

His majesty was really reduced some time since to a most mortifying dilemma: the apples at dinner time having been, by too great liberality to the royal children, expended, the king ordered a supply, but was informed, that the Board of Green Cloth would positively allow no more. Enraged at the unexpected and unroyal disappointment, he furiously put his hand into his pocket, took out sixpence, sent a page for two pennyworth of pippins, and received the change.

In Westminster Hall, where the sense (the author was just about to say nonsense) of the people was to be taken on an election.

Billy ramus—emphatically and constantly called by his majesty Billy Ramus. One of the pages who shaves the sovereign, airs his shirts, reads to him, writes for him, and collects anecdotes.

Puff, his Royal Highness's hair-dresser, who attending him at Windsor, the Prince, with his usual good-nature, ordered him to dine with the pages. The pride of the pages immediately took fire, and a petition was despatched to the king and prince, to be relieved from the distressful circumstance of dining with a hair-dresser. The petition was treated with the proper contempt, and the pages commanded to receive Mr. Puff into their mess, or quit the table. With unspeakable mortification Mr. Ramus and his brethren submitted; but, like the poor Gentoos who have lost their cast, have not held up their heads since.

Kynaston is the name of the gentleman assailed by this furious maid of honour, for disapprobation of the lady as an acquaintance for his wife.

Verily in the house of the Lord, on the Lord's day, in the year of our Lord 1785 in the village of Leatherhead, in the county of Surrey, did this profane salival assault take place on the phiz of 'Squire Kynaston, to the disgrace of his family, the wonder of the parson, the horror of the clerk, and the stupefaction of the congregation.

Mr. Christopher Atkinson's airing on the pillory is sufficiently known to the public.

This quarrel between the Prince of Asturias and his Princess, with the interference of the Spanish monarch, as described here, is not a poetic fiction, but an absolute fact, that happened not many months ago.

His most Catholic Majesty's shooting merits are universally acknowledged. Though far advanced in years, he is still the admiration of his subjects, and the envy of his brother kings, as a shot; and it is well known, that even on those days when the royal robes are obliged to be worn, his breeches pockets are stuffed with gun flints, screws, hammers, and other implements necessary for the destruction of snipes, partridges, and wild pigs.

The fair historian.

Dixon.

Mistress of the robes to her majesty.

Buxom Nanny—a female servant of the palace, who constantly attends the king when he reads dispatches.

The modest author of the Lousiad must do himself the justice to declare here, that his simile of the bubble and squeak is vastly more natural and more sublime than Homer's black pudding on a gridiron, illustrating the motions and emotions of his hero Ulysses. (Vid. Odyssey.)

This affair happened a few years since—An exciseman seizing some smuggled goods belonging to a princess, a relation of the Great Frederick, her highness fell upon the poor rat de cave, and almost scratched his eyes out—the exciseman made a formal complaint to the king, begging to be relieved from the disgrace. The gallant monarch returned for answer, that he gave up the duties to his cousin the princess, but could not conceive how the hand of a fair Lady could dishonour the face of an exciseman.

The Civil List, we are inclined to think, feels deficiencies from toys. For an instance we will appeal to Mr. Cumming's non-descript of a time-piece at the Queen's House, which cost nearly two thousand pounds. The same artist is also allowed 200l. per annum to keep the bauble in repair.

This is partly a picture of the last reign as well as the present. The passions of George the Second were of the most impetuous kind:—his hat and his favourite minister, Sir Robert Walpole, were too frequently the foot-balls of his ill humour—nay, poor Queen Caroline came in for a share of his foot benevolence—but he was a prince of virtues—ubi plura nitent, non ego paucis offendar maculis.

Nebuchadnezzar.

151

CANTO II.

‘------ Qualis ab incepto.’
HORACE.

‘As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.’

153

THE ARGUMENT.

Invocation to the Muses—Degeneracy of modern Poets—The ragged State of the Ladies of Parnassus—Sad Condition of Bards—Praise of Mr. West's great Picture of King Alexander and the Stag—More Invocation to the Muses—The Tricks of those Ladies—Their Impositions on Poets and Poetesses—A Compliment to King George and Dr. Herschell, on their Intimacy with the Moon, and important discoveries in that Planet—Invocation to Apollo—Invocation to Conscience—Conscience described—The great Powers of Conscience—More Invocation to Conscience—Truth and Falsehood, their Situations—More Invocation to Conscience—The Praise of Royal Economy and a Hanoverian College—Address to Gottingen—More Invocation to Conscience—Mr. Hastings's Bulse, Mrs. Hastings's Bed and Cradle properly treated—More Words to Conscience—The fatal Power of Conscience over the late Mr. Yorke and Lord Clive—Address to Fame—A Request to the aforesaid Gentlewoman, instructing her how to dispose of some of her Trumpets—Description

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of her Pseudo-votaries—The Bard blushing for the Quantity of Invocation—Procession of his Epic Poem—Madam Schwellenberg described with a Plate of Ham—Account of her Birth, Parentage, and Education—Account of Pride—Madam Schwellenberg's Visit to the King—His Majesty's most gracious Speech—Madam Schwellenberg's Answers—Address to Readers on Ladies Swearing—Sir Francis Drake, the Steward of the Household, described—not to be confounded with the famous Sir Francis Drake, who died near 200 Years ago—The Perquisites of the present Sir Francis—Description of the Dining Room belonging to the Cooks at Buckingham House—The Entertainment and Utensils of this Room—Dixon the Cook-major's Speech—Story of a Nabob and a Beggar—Cook-major Dixon's Speech in continuance—Speech of another Cook—The Cooks in the Dumps—The Cook-major's Rejoinder to the Cook's Speech—A very sensible Speech—Conclusion with a beautiful Simile—The Petition of the Cooks.

155

Nymphs of the sacred fount, around whose brink
Bards rush in droves, like cart-horses, to drink;
Dip their dark beards amidst your streams so clear,
And, whilst they gulp it, wish it ale or beer;
Far more delighted to possess, I ween,
Old Calvert's Brewhouse for their Hippocrene;
And blest with beef, their ghostly forms to fill,
Make Dolly's chophouse their Aonian hill;
More pleas'd to hear knives, forks, in concert join,
Than all the tinkling cymbals of the Nine;
Assist me—ye who themes sublime pursue,
With scarce a shift, a stocking, or a shoe!
Such pow'r have satires, epigrams, and odes,
As make ev'n bankrupts of the born of gods,
As well as mortal bards, who oft bewail
Their unsuccessful madrigals in jail,
Where penn'd, like hapless cuckows, in a cage,
The ragged warblers pour their tuneful rage;
Deck the damp walls with verse of various quality,
And, from their prisons, mount to immortality.

Ah! tell me where is now thy blush, O Shame!
Shall bards through jails explore the road to fame?
Like souls of papists in their way to glory,
Doom'd at the half-way house, call'd Purgatory,

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To burn, before they reach the realms of light,
Like old tobacco-pipes, from black to white?
Yet let me say again, that pow'rful rhime
Hath lifted poets to a state sublime;
To lofty pill'ries rais'd their sacred ears
High o'er the heads of marvelling compeers,
Whose eggs, potatoes, turnips and their tops,
Paid flying homage to their tuneful chops!
Blest state! that gives each fair exalted mien,
To grace in print a monthly magazine;
And deck the shops with sweet engravings drest,
'Midst angels, sinners, saints of Mr. West;
Where brave King Alexander and the Deer,
A noble bustling hodge-podge shall appear,
From that fam'd picture which our wonder drew,
And pour'd its brazen splendours on the view;
Bright as the pictures that with glorious glare,
On pent-house high, in Piccadilly stare,
Where lions seem to roar, and tigers growl,
Hyænas whine, and wolves in concert howl;
And, by their goggling eyes and furious grin,
Inform what shaggy devils lodge within.

Ye Nymphs who, fond of fun, full many a time,
Mount on a jack-ass many a child of rhime,
And make him think, astride his braying hack,
He moves sublime on Pegasus's back:
Ye Muses, oft by brainless poets sought
To bid the stanza chime, and swell with thought:
Who, whelping for oblivion, fain would save
Their whining puppies from the sullen wave;
Assist me! ye who visit towns and hovels,
To teach our girls in bibs to eke out novels,
And treat with scorn (far nobler knowledge studying)
The humbler art of making pie or pudding:
Who make our Sapphos of their verses vain,
And fancy all Parnassus in their brain;

157

And, 'midst the bustle of their lucubrations,
Take downright madness for your inspirations;
Charm'd with the cadence of a lucky line,
Who taste a rapture equal, George to thine;
When, blest at Datchet, thro' thy Herschell's glass,
That brings from distant worlds a horse, an ass,
A tree, a windmill, to the curious eye,
Shirts, stockings, blankets, that on hedges dry,
Thine eyes, at evenings late, and mornings soon,
Unsated feast on wonders in the moon;
Where Herschell on volcanoes, mountains, pores,
And happy nature's true sublime explores;
Whilst thou, so modest (wonderful to tell!)
On lunar trifles art content to dwell,
Flies, grasshoppers, grubs, cobwebs, cuckow spittle
In short, delighted with the world of little;
Which West shall paint, and grave Sir Joseph Banks
Receive from thy historic mouth with thanks;
Then bid the vermin on the journals crawl,
Hop, jump, and flutter, to amuse us all.

And thou, great Patron of the double quill,
That flays by rhime, and murders by a pill,
A pretty kind of double-barrel'd gun,
More giv'n to tragedy than comic fun;
Auspicious Patron of the paunch and backs
Of those all-daring rascals christen'd quacks,
To whom our purse and lives are legal plunder,
Who, hawk-like, keep the human species under:

God of those gentlemen of gingling brains,
Who, for their own amusement, print their strains;
Strains that ne'er soar'd beyond the beetle's flight,
Save on the pinions of a school-boy's kite;
Strains arrant strangers to a depth profound,
Save when deep pilgrimaging under ground,
In humble rags, like tinners in a mine,
They pay their court to Cloacina's shrine;

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Strains that no ray of light nor warmth proclaim,
Save when, committed to the fire, they flame;
Strains that a circulation never found,
Save when they turn'd on beef or ven'son round:
Oh! aid, as lofty Homer says, my nouse,
To sing sublime the Monarch and the Louse!

Nymphs, Phœbus, in my first heroic chapter
I should have pray'd for crumbs of tuneful rapture:
Thus to forget my friends was not so clever;
But, says the proverb, ‘better late than never.’

Well! since I'm in the invocation trade,
To Conscience let my compliments be paid—

Conscience, a terrifying little sprite,
That, bat-like, winks by day, and wakes by night;
Hunts thro' the heart's dark holes each lurking vice,
As sharp as weasels hunting eggs or mice;
Who, when the lightnings flash, and thunders crack,
Makes our hair bristle like a hedge-hog's back;
Shakes, ague-like, our hearts with wild commotion;
Uplifts our saint-like eyes with dread devotion;
Bids the poor trembling tongue make terms with Heav'n,
And promise miracles to be forgiv'n;
Bid spectres rise, not very like the Graces,
With goggling eyes, black-beards, and Tyburn faces;
With scenes of fires of glowing brimstone scares,
Spits, forks, and proper culinary wares,
For roasting, broiling, frying, fricasseeing
The soul, that sad offending little being;
That stubborn stuff, of salamander make,
Proof to the fury of the burning lake:

O Conscience! thou strait jacket of the soul,
The madding sallies of the bard control;
Who, when inclin'd, like brother bards, to lie,
Bring Truth's neglected form before his eye;
Fair maid! to towns and courts a stranger grown,
And now to rural swains almost unknown,
Whose company was once their prudent choice;
Who once, delighted listen'd to her voice;

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When in their hearts the gentler passion strove,
And Constancy went hand in hand with Love!
Sweet Truth, who steals through lonely shades along,
And mingles with the turtle's note her song;
Whilst Falsehood, rais'd by sycophantic tricks:
Unblushing, flaunts it in a coach and six:

Conscience! who bid'st our monarch, from the nation,
Send sons to Gottingen for education,
Since helpless Cam and Isis, lost to knowledge,
Are idiots to this Hanoverian college,
Where simple science beams with orient ray;
The great, the glorious Athens of the day!
So says the ruler of us English fools,
Who cannot judge like him of Wisdom's schools.

Dear attic Gottingen! to thee I bow,
Of knowledge, oh! most wonderful milch cow!
From whom huge pails the royal boys shall bring,
And give, we hope, a little to the ------.
Through thee, besides the knowledge they may reap,
The lads shall get their board and lodging cheap
And learn, like their good parents to subsist
Within the limits of the Civil List;
Who seldom bid a minister implore
A little farther pittance for the poor!

Conscience! who, to the wonder of his sire,
Bad'st from his wonted state a prince retire,
And, like a subject, humbly seek the shade,
That not a tradesman might remain unpaid:
An action that the soul of Envy stings—
A deed unmention'd in the book of Kings:

Conscience! who mad'st a monarch, by thy pow'r,
Send pris'ner the fam'd di'mond to the Tow'r;
So witchingly that look'd him in the face,
And impudently sought to bribe his grace:

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Where, too, the cradle and the bed shall rest,
That on the same damn'd errand left the East—
Thus fall of gem and pearl the treas'nous tribe,
And beds and cradles that would monarchs bribe!

Conscience! who now canst like a cart-horse draw;
Now, lifeless sinking, scarcely lift a straw;
So different are thy pow'rs at diff'rent times,
Thou dear companion of the man of rhimes!
Thou! who at times canst like a lion roar
For one poor sixpence; yet, like North, canst snore,
Though rapine, murder, try to ope thine eyes,
And raging Hell with all his horrors rise;
Whose eye on petty frauds can fiercely flame,
Yet wink at full-blown crimes that blast a name!

O Conscience! who didst bid to madness work
(So great thy pow'r) the brain of hapless Yorke,
And mad'st him cut from ear to ear his throat,
That luckless spoil'd his patriotic note;
Yet wantedst strength to force from his hard eye
One drop—who help'd him to yon spangled sky;
Whose damned pray'rs, feign'd tears, and tongue of art
Won on the weakness of his honest heart!
Poor Yorke! without a stone whose reliques lie,
Though Virtue mark'd the murder with a sigh!

O Conscience! who to Clive didst give the knife
That, desp'rate plunging, took his forfeit life;
Who, lawless plund'rer, in his wild career,
Whelm'd Asia's eye with woe, and heart with fear
Whose wheels on carnage roll'd, and, drench'd with blood,
From gasping nature forc'd the blushing flood;
Whilst Havock, panting with triumphant breath,
Nerv'd his red arm, and hail'd the hills of death.—
And now to thee, O lovely Fame, I bend;
Let all thy trumpets this great work commend;
Give one apiece to all the learn'd Reviews,
And bid them sound the labours of the Muse:

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Give to the Magazines a trumpet each,
And let the swelling note to doomsday reach:
To daily news-papers a trumpet give:
Thus shall my epic strain for ever live:
Thus shall my book descend to distant times,
And rapt posterity resound my rhimes.
By future beauties shall each tome be prest,
And, like their lapdogs live a parlour guest.

Thee, dearest Fame, some mercenaries hail,
Merely to gain their labours a good sale;
Or rise to fair preferment by thy tongue,
Though deaf as adders to thy charms of song;
Just as the hypocrites say pray'rs, sing psalms,
Bestow upon the blind and cripple alms;
Yield glory to the Pow'r who rules above,
Not from a principle of heav'nly love,
But, sneaking rascals! to obtain—when dead—
A comfortable lodging over head,
When, forc'd by age, or doctors, or their spouses,
The vagrants quit their sublunary houses.

With tiresome invocation having done,
At length our glorious epic may go on.—
Lo! Madam Schwellenberg, inclin'd to cram,
Was wondrous busy o'er a plate of ham;
A ham that once adorn'd a German pig,
Rough as a bear, and as a jack-ass big;
In woods of Westphaly by hunters smitten,
And sent a present to the queen of Britain.

But ere we farther march, ye Muses say,
Somewhat of Madam Schwellenberg, I pray:—
If ancient poets mention but a horse,
We read his genealogy of course:
Oh! say, shall horses boast the deathless line;
And o'er a lady's lineage sleep the Nine?

By virtue of her father and her mother,
This woman saw the light without much pother;

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That is,—no grand commotions shook our earth—
Apollo danc'd no hornpipe at her birth,
To say to what perfection she was born,
What wit, what wisdom should the nymph adorn:
No bees around her lips in clusters hung,
To tell the future sweetness of her tongue;
Around her cradle perch'd no cooing dove,
To mark the soul of innocence and love;
No smiling Cupids round her cradle play'd,
To show the future conquests of the maid;
Whose charms would make the jealous sex her foes,
And with their lightnings blast a thousand beaus.
Indeed the Muse must own a trifling pother
Sprung up between the father and the mother;
For after taking methods how to gain her,
They knew not how the dev'l they should maintain her.

Heav'ns! what! no prodigy attend her birth,
Who awes the greatest palace upon earth?
Yes!—a black cat around the bantling squall'd,
Join'd its young cries, and all the house appall'd:
Now here, now there, he sprung with visage wild,
And made a bold attempt to kiss the child;
Bats pour'd in hideous hosts into the room,
And, imp-like, flitting, form'd a sudden gloom;
Then to the cradle rush'd the dark'ning throng,
And, raptur'd, shriek'd congratulating song;
Which song, in concert with the squalls of puss,
Seem'd, in plain German, ‘Thou art one of us.’
In Strelitz first this dame the light espy'd,
Born to a good inheritance of pride;
For, howe'er paradoxical it be,
Pride pigs with people of a low degree,
As well as with your folks of fortune struts;
Like rats that live in palaces or huts;
Or bugs, an animal of pompous gait,
That dwell in beds of straw or beds of state;
Or monkeys vile, whose tooth inglorious grapples,
Now with ananas, now with rotten apples.

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Hail, Proteus Pride, whose various powers of throat
Can swell the trumpet's loud and saucy note;
And if a meaner air can serve thy turn,
In panting, quiv'ring sounds of Jews'-harps, mourn!
Hail, Pride, companion of the great and little,
So abject, who canst lick a patron's spittle;
Whine like a sneaking puppy at his door,
And turn the hind part of thy wig before;
Nay, if he orders, turn it inside out,
And wear it, merry-andrew like, about;
Heed not the grinning world a single rush,
But bear its pointed scorn without a blush.
Yet fain wouldst thou the crouching world bestride,
Just like the Rhodian Bully o'er the tide;
The brazen wonder of the world of yore,
That proudly stretch'd his legs from shore to shore,
And saw of Greece the loftiest navy travel,
In dread submission underneath his navel.

So much for pride—great, little, humble, vain;
And now for Madam Schwellenberg again.

Whether the nymph could ever boast a grace,
That deign'd to pay a visit to her face,
The Muse is ignorant, she must allow;
Yet knows this truth, that not one sparkles now.
If ever beauties, in delight excelling,
Charm'd on her cheek, they long have left their dwelling.
This nymph a mantuamaker was, I ween,
And priz'd for cheapness by our saving queen,
Who (where's the mighty harm of loving money?)
Brought her to this fair land of milk and honey,
And plac'd her in a most important sphere—
Inspectress General of the royal geer.

Soon as this woman heard the Louse's tale,
At once she turn'd, like walls of plaster pale.
But first the ham of Westphaly she gobbled,
And then to seek the Lord's Anointed hobbled:
Him full of wrath, like Peleus' son of yore,
When Agamemnon took away his w---,

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In all the bitterness of wrath she found;
The queen and royal children staring round.
‘O Swelly!—thus the madden'd monarch roar'd,
Whilst wild impatience wing'd each rapid word;
For, lo! the solemn march of graceful speech,
The king long since had bid to kiss his b---h.
The broken language that his mouth affords
Are heads and tails, and legs and wings of words,
That give imagination's laughing eye
A lively picture of a giblet pie.

‘O Swelly, Swelly!’ cry'd the furious king,
‘What! what a dirty, filthy, nasty thing!—
That thus you come to ease my angry mind,
Indeed is very, very, very, very kind.—
What's your opinion, hæ!’—the monarch rav'd:
‘Yes, yes, the cooks shall ev'ry one be shav'd—
What! what! hæ! hæ! now tell me, Swelly, pray,
Shan't I be right in't—What! what! Swelly, hæ?
Yes, yes, I'm sure on't, by the Louse's looks,
That he belong'd to some one of the cooks.—
Speak, Swelly; shan't we shave each filthy jowl?
Yes, yes, and that we will, upon my soul.’

To whom the dame, with elevated chin,
Wide-staring eyes, and broad, contemptuous grin:

‘Yes, sure as dat my soul is to be sav'd,
So sure de dirty rascals sal be shav'd—
Shav'd to de quick be ev'ry moder's son—
And curse me if I do not see it done:
De barbers soon der nasty locks sal fall on,
Nor leave one standing for a louse to crawl on.
If on der skulls de razor do not shine,
May gowns and petticoats no more be mine—
Curl, club, and pigtail, all sal go to pot,
For such curs'd nastiness, or I'll be rot;
Or else to Strelitz let me quickly fly,
Dat dunghill, dat poor pighouse to de eye;
Where from his own mock trone de prince, so great,
Can jomp into another prince estate—

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Yes, by de God dat made dis eart and me,
No single lousy rascal sal go free.’

Reader, thou raisest both thy marv'lling eyes,
In all the staring wildness of surprise;
As if the poet did not truth revere,
And fanciest gentlewomen could not swear:
Go, fool, and seek the ladies of the mud,
Queens of the lakes, or damsels of the flood,
Nymphs, Nereids, or what vulgar tongues call drabs,
Who vend at Billingsgate their sprats and crabs;
Tell them their fish all stink, and thou wilt hear
Whether fine gentlewomen ever sweare:
Nay, visit many of our courtly dames,
When wrath their dove-like gentleness inflames;
Lo! thou shalt find, by many a naughty word,
They use small ceremony with the Lord,
In spite of all that godly books contain,
That teach them not to take his name in vain.

‘Thanks, Swelly, thanks, thanks, thanks,’ the king reply'd;
‘Like me you have not got a grain of pride.—
Yes, yes, if I am master of this house—
Yes, yes, the locks shall fall, and then the Louse.’

He spoke, and to confirm the dreadful doom,
His head he shook, that shook the dining room.
Thus Jove, of old, the dread, the thund'ring god,
Shook, when he swore, Olympus with his nod.

‘Yes,’ cry'd the king—‘yes, yes, their curls shall quake—
But tell me, where, where, where's Sir Francis Drake?’

O, reader, think not 'twas that Drake, Sir Francis,
Whose wondrous actions seem almost romances;
Who shone in sense profound, and bloodiest wars,
And rais'd the nation's glory to the stars;
Who first in triumph sail'd around the world,
And vengeance on the foes of Britain hurl'd;

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But he who sculks around the royal kitchen,
Which if he catch a neighbour's dog or bitch in,
Lets fly, to strike the four-legg'd mumper dead,
A poker, or a cleaver, at his head.
Not that Sir Francis Drake who, god-like, bore
Fair freedom, science to th' Atlantic shore;
To Pagans gave the Gospel's saving grace,
And planted virtue midst a barb'rous race;
Spread on the darken'd realms the blaze of light—
But he who sees the spoons and plates are bright;
Sees that the knives before the king and queen
Are, like the pair of royal stomachs, keen:
Not he, whose martial frown whole kingdoms shook,
But he whose low'ring visage shakes a cook:
Not he who pour'd on Mexico his tars,
But he, at London, who with linen wars,
Napkins and damask tablecloths assails
With scissars, razors, knives, and teeth, and nails;
Who dares with Doylies desp'rate war to wage,
Such is his province and domestic rage,
If, like his predecessors, he hath grace,
And calls his conquests, perquisites of place.—
'Twas not that Drake who bade his daring crew
Run with their bayonets the Spaniards through;
But that important Drake, in office big,
Instructing cooks to spit a goose or pig:
Not he who took the Spaniards by the nose,
And prisons fill'd with Britain's graceless foes;
But he who bids the geese, his pris'ners, die,
And stuffs their leggs and gizzards in a pie:
He who, three times a week, a green-cloth lord,
Sits, wisdom-fraught, at that important board

167

With wise compeers, in judge-like order studying,
Whether the king shall have a tart or pudding.
Not he, by virtues to the world endear'd,
By foes respected, and by friends rever'd;
Prompt to relieve the supplicating sigh,
Who never dash'd with tears the asking eye;
But wak'd of joy the long departed beam,
Deep sunk in sorrow's unremitting stream:
But he, with greatness at eternal strife,
Who never gave a sixpence in his life;
Who, if he ever ask'd a friend to dine,
Requested favours that outweigh'd his wine;
From lane to lane, who steals with wary feet;
Just like the cautious hare that seeks his seat:
Who, though a city near him rears her head,
And wealthy villages around him spread,
No friend, no neighbour near his mansion found;
Like Cain he walks in solitude around.
'Twas this Sir Francis, quite a diff'rent man
From him who round the world with glory ran:
Forbid it Heav'n! that e'er the Muse untrue
Should give to any man another's due!

Muse, leave we now the monarch, vengeance brewing,
To take a peep at what the cooks were doing.

In that snug room, the scene of shrewd remark,
Whose window stares upon the saunt'ring park;
Where many a hungry bard, and gambling sinner,
In chop-fall'n sadness, counts the trees for dinner
In that snug room where any man of spunk
Would find it a hard matter to get drunk;
Where coy Tokay ne'er feels a cooks embraces,
Nor port nor claret show their rosy faces;

168

But where old Adam's beverage flows with pride,
From wide-mouth'd pitchers, in a plenteous tide;
Where veal, pork, mutton, beef, and fowl, and fish,
All club their joints to make one handsome dish;
Where stew-pan covers serve for plates, I ween,
And knives and forks and spoons are never seen;
Where pepper issues from a paper bag,
And for a cruet stands a brandy cag;
Where Madam Schwellenberg too often sits,
Like some old tabby in her mousing fits,
Demurely squinting with majestic mien,
To catch some fault to carry to the queen:
In that snug room, like those immortal Greeks,
Of whom, in book the thirteenth, Ovid speaks—
Around the table, all with sulky looks,
Like culprits doom'd to Tyburn, sat the cooks:
At length, with phiz that show'd the man of woes,
The sorrowing king of spits and stew-pans rose;
Like Paul at Athens, very justly sainted,
And by the charming brush of Raphael painted,
With out-stretch'd hands, and energetic grace,
He fearless thus harangues the roasting race;
Whilst gaping round, in mute attention, sit,
The poor forlorn disciples of the spit:
‘Cooks, scullions, hear me ev'ry mother's son—
Know that I relish not this royal fun:
George thinks us scarcely fit ('tis very clear)
To carry guts, my brethren, to a bear.’—
‘Guts to a bear!’ the cooks, up-springing, cry'd—
‘Guts to a bear,’ the major loud reply'd.
‘Guts to the dev'l!’ loud roar'd the cooks again,
And toss'd their noses high in proud disdain:
The plain translation of whose pointed noses
The reader needeth not, the bard supposes;
But if the reason some dull reader looks,
'Tis this—whatever kings may think of cooks,
Howe'er crown'd heads may deem them low-born things,
Cooks are possess'd of souls as well as kings.

169

Yet are there some who think (but what a shame!)
Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham,
Adulterated brass—base stuff—abhorr'd—
That never can pass current with the Lord;
And think because of wealth they boast a store,
With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor:
Witness the story that my Muse, with tears,
Relates, O reader, to thy shrinking ears:

With feeble voice and deep desponding sighs,
With sallow cheek and pity-asking eyes,
A wretch, by age and poverty decay'd,
For farthings lately to a nabob pray'd;
The nabob, turkey-like, began to swell,
And damn'd the beggar to the pit of hell.
‘Oh! Sir,’ the supplicant was heard to cry
(The tear of mis'ry trickling from his eye),
‘Though I'm in rags, and wondrous, wondrous poor,
And you with gold and silver cover'd o'er,
There won't in heav'n such difference take place,
When we before the Lord come face to face.’—
‘You face to face with me!’ the nabob cry'd,
In all the insolence of upstart pride:—
‘You face to face with me, you dog, appear!
Damme, I'll kick you, if I catch you there.’—
Oh, shocking blasphemy! oh, horrid speech!
Where was the fellow born? the wicked wretch!—
So black an imp would pull, I do suppose,
A bulse of di'monds from a Begum's nose;
Or make, like Doulah, careless of his soul,
A new edition of the old Black Hole.
‘What's life,’ the major said, ‘my brethren, pray,
If force must snatch our first delights away?
Relentless shall the royal mandate drag
The hairs that long have grac'd this silken bag;
Hairs to a barber scarcely worth a fig,
Too few to make a foretop for a wig?
Must razors vile these locks, so scanty, shave,
Locks that I wish to carry to my grave;

170

Hairs, look, my lads, so wonderfully thin,
Old Schwellenberg hath more upon her chin?’
‘Yes, that she hath,’ exclaim'd a cook, ‘by G*d,
A damn'd old German good-for-nothing toad.’
‘Yes, yes, her mouth with beard divinely bristles—
Curse me, I'd rather kiss a bunch of thistles,
Oh! were it but his majesty's commands
To give her gentle jawbones to these hands,
I'd shave her, like a punish'd soldier, dry—
I'd pay my compliments to madam's chin—
I'll answer for't I'd make the devil grin—
The razor most deliciously should work—
I'd trim her muzzle—yes, I'd scrape her pork—
I'd teach her to some purpose to behave,
And show the witch the nature of a shave—
O! woman, woman! whether lean or fat,
In face an angel, but in soul a cat!’
He ended—when each mouth upon the stretch,
Crown'd with a loud horse-laugh the classic speech.

Too soon, alas! Resentment seiz'd the hour,
And Joke resign'd his grin-provoking pow'r;
Rage dimn'd of mirth the sudden sunny sky,
And fill'd with gloomy oaths each scowling eye;
Whilst Grief, returning, took her turn to reign,
Sunk every heart, and sadden'd ev'ry mien;—
Drew from their giddy heights the laughing graces—
For much is grief dispos'd to bring down faces.

‘Son of the spit,’ the major, strutting, cry'd,
‘I like thy spirit, and revere thy pride:
I'd rather hear thee than a bishop preach,
For thou hast made a very pretty speech.
Such is the language that the gods should hear,
And such should thunder on the royal ear.
Yet, son of dripping, tho' thou speak'st my notions,
We must not be too nimble in our motions—
Awhile, heroic brothers, let us halt:
Soft fires, the proverb tells us, make sweet malt.
And yet again I bid you stand like rocks,
And battle for the honour of your locks.

171

Lo! in these aged hairs is all my joy—
To shave them, is my being to destroy.
What's life, if life has not a bliss to give?—
And, if unhappy, who would wish to live?
Content can visit the poor spider'd room;
Pleas'd with the coarse rush mat and birchen broom;
Where parents, children, feast on oaten bread,
With cheeks as round as apples, and as red;
Where health with vigour nerves their backs and hams,
Sweet souls, though ragged as young colts or rams;
Where calmly sleep the parents with their darlings,
Though nibbled by the fleas as thick as starlings;
Lull'd to their rest, beneath the coarsest rugs,
And dead to bitings of a thousand bugs.

Content, mild maid! delights in simple things,
And envies not the state of queens or kings;
Can dine on sheep's head, or a dish of broth,
Without a table or a tablecloth;
Nor wishes, with the fashionable group,
To visit Horton's shop for turtle soup:
Can use a bit of packthread for a jack,
And sit upon a chair without a back:
Nay, wanting knives, can with her fingers work,
And use a wooden skewer for a fork.
Sweet maid! who thinks not shoes of leather shocking,
Nor feels the horrors in a worsted stocking;
Her temper mild, no huckaback can shock,
Though for her lovely limbs it forms a smock:
Pleas'd with the nat'ral curls her face that shade,
No graves are robb'd for hair to form a braid:
Her breast of native plumpness ne'er aspires
To swelling merry thoughts of gauze and wires,
To look like crops of ducks (with labour born)
Stretch'd by a superfluity of corn.
With nature's hips, she sighs not for cork rumps,
And scorns the pride of pinching stays or jumps;
But, pleas'd from whalebone prisons to escape,
She trusts to simple nature for a shape;

172

Without a warming-pan can go to bed,
And wrap her petticoat about her head;
Nor sigh for cobweb caps of Mechlin lace,
That shade of quality the varnish'd face:
Sweet nymph, like doves, she seeks her straw-built nest,
And in a pair of minutes is undrest;
Whilst all the fashionable female clans,
Undressing, seem unloading caravans.
No matter from what source contentment springs;
'Tis just the same in cooks as 'tis in kings;
And if our souls are set upon our hair,
Let snip-snap barbers, nay, let kings beware,
Nor tempt the dangerous rage of true John Bulls,
And clap, like fools, the edge-tool to our skulls.
Tread on a worm, he shows his rage and pain,
By turning on the wounding toe again;
Nay, ev'n inanimates appear to feel:—
On the loose stone, if chance direct your heel,
Lo! from its womb the sudden stream ascends
To prove the foot was not among its friends;
And calling in the aid of neighbour mud,
O'er the fair stocking spouts the sable flood.’

So spoke the major, with resentment fir'd—
Spoke like a man—indeed, like man inspir'd.—
Some critic cries, with sharp, fastidious look,
‘Bard, bard, this is not language for a cook.’—
O snarler! but I'll lay thee any wager,
It is not too sublime for a cook-major.

‘Behold! to remedy our sad condition,’
The major cry'd, ‘I've cook'd up a petition:
This carries weight with it, or I'm mistaken,
Shall shake the monarch's soul, and save our bacon.’
Then jumping on a barrel, thus aloud
He read sonorous to the gaping crowd.

Thus reads a parish-clerk in church a brief,
That begs for burnt-out wretches kind relief—

173

Relief, alas! that very rarely reaches
The poor petitioners, the ruin'd wretches;
But (lost its way) unfortunately steers
To fat churchwardens and fat overseers;
Improves each dish, augments the punch and ale,
And adds new spirit to the smutty tale.

A whole acre of canvass so daubed by colour as to give it the appearance of a brass foundry.

Of the Royal Society.

Apollo.

Such is the story of the late sly bulse that stole into St. James's.

It was a common practice, in the last and preceding reigns, to tear and cut the royal linen privately, which, on account of the teeth, knife, nail, or scissar wounds, were never more used, but went as perquisites to treasurers and masters of the household.

Exeter.

The larder.

This will be deemed strange by my country readers—but it is nevertheless true.

THE PETITION OF THE COOKS.

‘Your majesty's firm friends and faithful cooks,
Who in your palace merry liv'd as grigs,
Have heard, with heavy hearts and down-cast looks,
That we must all be shav'd, and put on wigs:
You, sire, who with such honour wear your crown,
Should never bring on ours disgraces down.

Dread sir! we really deem our heads our own,
With ev'ry sprig of hair that on them springs:—
In France, where men like spaniels lick the throne,
And count it glory to be cuff'd by kings,
Their locks belong unto the Grand Monarque,
Who swallows privileges like a shark.

Be pleas'd to pardon what we now advance;—
We dare your sacred majesty assure,
That there's a diff'rence between us and France;
And long, we hope, that diff'rence will endure.
We know King Lewis would, with pow'r so dread,
Not only cut the hair off, but the head.

Oh! tell us, sir, in loyalty so true,
What dire designing raggamuffins said,
That we, your cooks, are such a nasty crew,
Great sir! as to have crawlers in our head?

174

My liege, you can't find one through all our house,—
Not if you'd give a guinea for a louse.

What creature 'twas you found upon your plate
We know not—if a louse, it was not ours:—
To shave each cook's poor unoffending pate,
Betrays too much of arbitrary pow'rs;—
The act humanity and justice shocks:—
Let him who owns the crawler lose his locks.

But grant upon your plate this louse so dread,
How can you say, sir, it belongs to us?
Maggots are found in many a princely head;
And if a maggot, why then not a louse?
Nay, grant the fact;—with horror should you shrink?
It could not eat your majesty, we think.

Hunger, my liege, hath oft been felt by kings,
As well as people of inferior state;—
Quarrels with cooks are therefore dangerous things—
We cannot answer for your stomach's fate;
For, by your size, we frankly must declare,
You feed on more substantial stuff than air.

My liege, a universe hath been your foes:
The times have look'd most miserably black—
America hath try'd to pull your nose—
French, Dutch, and Spaniards, try'd to bang your back:
'Twould be a serious matter, we can tell ye,
Were we to buccaneer it on your belly.

You see the spirit of your cooks, then, sire—
Determin'd nobly to support their locks;
And should your guards be order'd out to fire,
Their guns may be oppos'd by spits and crocks:
Knives, forks, and spoons, may fly, with plates a store,
And all the thunder of the kitchen roar.

175

Nat. Gardner, yeoman of the mouth, declares
He'll join the standard of your injur'd cooks—
Each scullion, turn broche, for redress prepares,
And puts on very formidable looks:
Your women too—imprimis, Mistress Dyer,
Whose eggs are good as ever felt a fire:

Next sweeper-general Bickley, Mistress Mary,
With that fam'd bell-ringer, call'd Mistress Loman—
Ann Spencer, guardian of the necessary,
That is to say, the necessary woman—
All these, an't please you, sir, so fierce, determine
To join us in the cause of hair and vermin.

There's Mistress Stewart, Mister Richard Day,
Who find your sacred majesty in linen,
Are ready to support us in our fray—
You can't conceive the passion they have been in;
They swear so much your scheme of shaving hurts,
You shan't have pocket-handkerchiefs or shirts.

The grocers, Clark and Taylor, curse the scheme,
And say, whate'er we do, the world won't blame us—
So Comber says who gives you milk and cream—
And thus your old friend Mister Lewis Ramus:
We think your sacred majesty would mutter
At loss of sugar, milk, and cream and butter.

Suppose, an't please you, sir, that Mistress Knutton
And Mistress Maishfield, fierce as tiger cats;
One overseer of all the beef and mutton,
The other lady president of sprats—
Suppose, in opposition to your wish,
This locks away the flesh, and that the fish?

Suppose John Clarke refuse supplies of mustard,
So necessary to your beef and bacon

176

Will Roberts, all the apple-pie and custard?
Your majesty would growl, or we're mistaken.—
Suppose that Wells, to plague your stomach studying,
From Sunday, sacrilegious, steals the pudding?

Suppose that Rainsforth with our corps unites;
We mean the man who all the tallow handles—
Suppose he locks up all the mutton lights—
How could your majesty contrive for candles
You'd be (excuse the freedom of remark)
Like some administrations—in the dark.

We dare assure you that our grief is great—
And oft, indeed, our feelings it enrages,
To see your sacred majesty beset
By such a graceless gang of idle pages—
And, with submission to your judgment, sire,
We think old Madam Schwellenberg a liar.

Suppose, great sir, that by your cruel fiat,
The barbers should attack our humble head,
And that we should not choose to breed a riot,
Because we might not wish to lose our bread;
Say, would the triumph o'er each harmless cook
Make George the Third like Alexander look?

Dread sir, reflect on Johnny Wilkes's fate,
Supported chiefly by a paltry rabble—
Wilkes bade defiance to your frowns and state,
And got the better in that famous squabble;
Poor was the victory you wish'd to win,
That set the mouth of Europe on the grin.

O king, our wives are in the kitchen roaring,
All ready in rebellion now to rise—
They mock our humble method of imploring,
And bid us guard against a wig surprise:—
‘Yours is the hair,’ they cry'd, ‘th' Almighty gave ye,
And not a king in Christendom should shave ye.’

177

Lo! on th' event the world impatient looks,
And thinks the joke is carried much too far—
Then pray, sir, listen to your faithful cooks,
Nor in the palace breed a civil war:
Loud roars our band, and, obstinate as pigs,
Cry, ‘Locks and liberty, and damn the wigs!’

179

CANTO III.

Magnum iter ascendo, sed dat mihi gloria vires—
Non juvat ex facili lecta corona jugo.
PROPERTIUS.

Bold is th' ascent, but glory nerves my pow'rs
I like to pick on precipices, flow'rs.

181

THE ARGUMENT.

A sublime, natural, elegant, and original Description of Night—Modesty of the Stars—Slumbering Situation of their M---j---s, with a Compliment to their Constancy—The charming Princesses asleep—high Compliments bestowed on them—A prophetic Suggestion of a Courtship between one of our Princesses and some great German Duke—An Account of Mr. Morpheus, vulgarly called the God of Sleep—his Civility to the People, in giving them pretty Dreams, by way of Compensation for shutting up their Mouths, Eyes, and Ears, for a dozen or fourteen Hours together—The solemn Amusements of Silence—A Night-Picture of London—The Palace, a Night-Scene—The Goodness of certain Court Lords to the Maids of Honour—Kind Embraces placed in a new Light, and vindicated—More Account of the Palace; containing a thirsty Fly, a hungry Cat, a starved Bull-dog, and frost-nipped Crickets—An Account of Madam Fame's Journey to the Den of Madam Discord—An Account of Madam Discord—An Inventory of her Cell—Account of her Excursions—her Pictures and Music—her sudden Flight to Buckingham-House—assumes

182

the Shape of Madam Schwellenberg—whispers his Majesty—the Speech to Majesty—Majesty's fine Answer in his Sleep—Discord quits Majesty—takes the Form of Madam Haggerdorn—and goes to the Major's Bedside, and whispers Rebellion to him—Her Speech—The Major sits upright in his Bed—handles his Pig-tail—The Major's most pathetic Curses—his sensible Soliloquy on Wigs—his Attack on Kings in general, and Praise of our most gracious King in particular—The Major strikes a Light—a rich Comparison—visits a Master Cook—Vast Difference between a Battle fought in a Field and in a Newspaper—The Descent of the Cooks to the Kitchen—A great and apt Comparison—The Cooks look about for Day-light with Horror—The Situation of their Souls described—finely illustrated by a great Woman's Apprehensions for her fine diamond Stomacher—Lord Egl---t---n and an old Maid—A most tender and just Apostrophe to the frail Fair-ones of the Town—a Tear dropped on their unhappy Condition—their Part taken by the Poet, and, in a great Measure, vindicated—The Poet's Thunder-bolt launched at a certain great Limb of the Law, by way of Palliation—A short yet most charming Reflection on the female Heart, when in Love—The Poet returns to the Cooks—continues to describe their dread of Day-light, by more apt Comparisons of hungry Authors—General Conflagration—Sir
183

William Chambers and the Bishop of Exeter—Some Allusion to his Majesty's Journey to Exeter—Extracts from a Manuscript Poem of a Devonshire Humourist, one John Ploughshare—The Major vainly endeavours to banish his Fears by whistling and humming a Couple of Tunes—The Names of the unsuccessful Tunes—The Major's Choice of them only known to the great Author of Nature.

185

Night, like a widow in her weeds of woe,
Had gravely walk'd for hours our world below:
Hobgoblins, spectres in her train, and cats;
Owls round her hooting, mix'd with shrieking bats,
Like wanton Cupids in th' Idalian grove,
That flick'ring sport around the Queen of Love.
Now like our quality, who darkling rise,
Each star had op'd its fashionable eyes;
Too proud to make appearance, too well bred,
Till Sol, the vulgar wretch, had gone to bed.

His wisdom dead to sublunary things,
In leaden slumber snor'd the best of *****;
In slumber lifeless, with seraphic mien,
Close at his back, too, snor'd his gentle *****:
Unlike the pair of modern days, that weds,
And, in one fortnight, bawls for different beds!

Blest imp! now Morpheus o'er each princess stole,
And clos'd those radiant eyes that vainly roll!
Eyes! love's bright stars! but doom'd in vain to shine;
For, ah! what youth shall say, ‘those orbs are mine:’

186

Then, what are eyes, alas! the brightest eyes,
Forbid to languish on a lover's sighs
The pouting lip, the soft luxuriant breast,
If coldly fated never to be press'd?
Ah, vainly those like dew-clad cherries glow;
And this as vainly vies with Alpine snow!
The breath that gives of Araby the gales,
The voice that sounds enchantment, what avails?
The Juno form, the purple bloom of May,
Gifts of the Graces, all are thrown away!

But, possibly, some German duke may move,
And make a tendre of his heavy love!
His wide dominions—miles, p'rhaps, nine or ten;
His Myrmidonian phalanx—fifty men!
But, lo! his heart, the fount whence honour springs,
Swell'd with the richest blood of ancient kings!
He comes! not for high birth, his own before!
Great duke! he comes to woo our golden ore,
And add (how truly happy Britain's fate!)
Another leech to suck the sanguine state;
To join (composing what a goodly row!)
The place-broker, old Schw--- and Co.

Now Morpheus (in compassion to mankind,
Made, by his magic, deaf, and dumb, and blind)
Amus'd with dreams man's ambulating soul,
To recompense him for the time he stole;
Bade the beau dance, his Delia melt away,
Who box'd his ears so cruel through the day.
Of ancient damsels eas'd the lovesick pains,
Brought back lost charms, and fill'd their laps with swains;
Gave placid cuckoldom a constant dame;
To brainless authors, bread and cheese and fame;
Made driv'ling monarchs schemes of wisdom plan,
And nature's rankest coward kill his man;
Gave to the chap-fall'n courtier wealth and power,
Who felt no favour at the levee-hour,
Though tip-toed, hawk-like, watchful all the while,
To seize the faintest glimpse of royal smile;

187

Bade happy aldermen assume new airs,
Be-chain'd with all the splendor of lord may'rs;
And bade them too (without a groat to pay)
Re-gobble all the turtle of the day:
Bade Gl---r think his might could match a mouse,
And Chambers fancy he could build a house;
And Lady Mount, th' antipodes of grace,
Think that she does not frighten with her face.

Now Silence in the country stalk'd the dews,
As if she wore a flannel pair of shoes,
Lone list'ning, as the poets well remark,
To falling mill-streams, and the mastiff's bark;
To loves of wide-mouth'd cats, most mournful tales;
To hoot of owls amid the dusky vales,
To hum of beetles, and the bull-frog's snore,
The spectre's shriek, and ocean's drowsy roar.—
Lull'd was each street of London to repose,
Save where it echo'd to a watchman's nose;
Or where a watchman, with ear-piercing rattle,
Rous'd his brave brothers from each box to battle;
To fall upon the Cynthias of the night,
Sweet nymphs! whose sole profession is delight!
Thus the gaunt wolves the tender lambs pursue,
And hawks, in blood of doves, their beaks imbrue!
Thus on the flies of evening rush the bats,
And mastiffs sally on the am'rous cats!

Still was the palace, save where now and then
The tell-tale feet of love-designing men,
Night-wand'ring lords, soft patting on the floor,
Of maids of honour sought the chamber door;
Obliging door! that, op'ning to the tap,
Admitted lords to take a social nap,
And chase most kindly from each timid maid
The ghosts that frightful haunt the midnight shade:
For very horrid 'tis, we all must own,
For poor defenceless nymphs to lie alone;
Since nights are often doleful, dark, and drear,
And raise in gentle breasts a world of fear.

188

Nay, were not lords ordain'd for ladies' charms;
To guard from perils dire, and dread alarms?
Yes! and like lock'd-up gems those charms to keep,
Amidst the spectred solitude of sleep.
How wicked then to fly in Nature's face,
And deal damnation on a kind embrace!
Pardon, ye grave divines, this doctrine strange,
Who think my morals may have caught the mange.
Still was the palace, save where some poor fly,
With thirst just ready to drop down and die,
Buzz'd faint petitions to his Maker's ear,
To show him one small drop of dead small beer;
Save where the cat, for mice, so hungry, watching,
Swore the lean animals were scarce worth catching;
Save where the dog so gaunt, in grumbling tone,
By dreams deluded, mouth'd a mutton bone;
Save where, with throats to sounds of horror strain'd,
Crickets of coughs and rheumatisms complain'd,
Lamenting sore, amid a royal hold,
‘How hard that crickets should be kill'd by cold!’

Now Fame to Discord's dreary mansion flew,
To tell the beldame more than all she knew,
Who, at the Devil's table, for her work,
For ever welcome finds a knife and fork:
Discord, a sleepless hag, who never dies,
With snipe-like nose, and ferret-glowing eyes,
Lean, sallow cheeks, long chin, with beard supply'd,
Poor crackling joints, and wither'd parchment hide,
As if old drums, worn out with martial din,
Had clubb'd their yellow heads to form her skin;
Discord, who, pleas'd a universe to sway,
Is never half so bless'd as in a fray:
Discord, to deeds, indeed, most daring giv'n,
Who bade vile Satan raise a dust in heav'n;
Stirr'd up the sweetest angels to rebel,
And sunk the fairest forms to darkest hell;
Bade by her din, the humblest spirits rise,
Bold to dethrone the Monarch of the Skies;

189

For which they very properly were sent,
Unhappy legions! into banishment;
Doom'd, for such most abominable sinning,
To broil on charcoal, with eternal grinning.

Discord, who whisper'd to the jealous Cain,
‘Go crack thy brother's box that holds his brain;’
Which Cain perform'd, in godliness unstable,
That foe to piety and brother Abel:
Discord, who haunts poor G---'s maudlin dame,
And makes her duke of wisdom cry out ‘Shame!’
Who, after dinner, for her honours screams,
And grasps a British crown in drunken dreams;
Then roars as though (what richly she deserves)
The d*ke had clapp'd a broomstick to her nerves:
Discord, who also often doth profane
The goodly streets and courts of Drury-lane;
Where bawd meets bawd, blaspheming, swearing, drunk,
Pimp knocks down pimp, and punk abuses punk:
Discord, delighting in the wordy war,
The pillar of the senate and the bar:
Discord, who makes a ** delight in ode,
Slight Square of Hanover for Tott'nham Road;
Where, with the taste sublime of Goth and Vandal,
He orders the worst works of heavy Handel;
Encores himself , till all the audience gape,
And suffers not a quaver to escape:
Discord, all eye, all mouth, all ear, all nose,
For ever warring with a world's repose!

When Fame arriv'd, the shaving tale to tell,
Pleas'd was the red-ey'd fury in her cell,

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Where scorpions crawl'd, where screech'd that noisy fowl,
Known in Great-Britain by the name of owl;
Bats shriek'd, and grillatalpas join'd the sound,
Cats squall'd, pigs whin'd, and adders hiss'd around.

Close to the restless wave her mansion lay,
Receding from the beam of cheerful day:
Hence on black wing the hag was wont to roam,
And join the witches 'mid the stormy gloom;
Howl with delight amid the thunder's roar;
Hang o'er the wrecks that crowd the billowy shore;
See, 'midst each flash, the heads of seamen rise,
And drink with greedy ears their drowning cries.—
Around her dwelling various portraits hung,
Of those whose noisy names in hist'ry rung,
Here, with spread arms, whom grace and fury fill,
Thund'ring damnation, star'd Stentorian Hill:
There, curs'd Sir Joseph Banks, in quest of fame,
At finding fleas and lobsters not the same.
Here, a prime fav'rite, of a sainted band,
Hell in his heart, and torches in his hand;
Lord George by mobs huzza'd, and, what is odd,
Burning poor Papists for the love of God;
Pleas'd as old Nero on each falling dome,
Sublimely fiddling to the flames of Rome!
There, in respect to kings, not over nice,
That revolution-sinner—Doctor Price:
Whose labours, in a most uncourtly style.
Win not, like gentle Burke's, the royal smile;
Gain not from good divines both praise and thanks,
Call'd, by the wicked, ‘Gospel mountebanks,
Mere quack pretenders, from their lofty station
Puffing off idle nostrums of salvation;
Who, where the milk and honey flows, resort,
Like rooks in corn fields, black'ning all the court.’
Here, leading all her bears so savage forth,
Wild rag'd the Amazonian of the north,
With ruin leagu'd, t'attack the Turkish hive,
And leave not half a Mussulman alive:

191

There storm'd a vixen, far and near renown'd
For sweetness, meekness, piety profound;
Her sons abusing (in abuses old),
With all the fury of a German scold!—
These, with some scores, were seen, of equal fame,
Thanks to a lonely taper's livid flame!
The form of Madam Schwellenberg she took,
Her broken English, garb, and sin-like look;
Then sought the palace, and the royal ear,
And whisper'd thus, ‘Mine God, sir, nebber fear—
Oh, please your majesty, you ver ver right:
Shave all de rascal, if but out of spite.
Lord! Lord! how vill a mighty monarch look,
Not able, O mine God! for shave a cook!
Dat like a king, I say, what can't do dat?
Mine God! pray haf more spirit dan a cat.
Ser, in mine court, de prince be great as king—
He scorn to ax one word about a ting.
Mine God! de cook muss nebber dare make groan,
Nor dare to tell a prince der soul der own:
'Tis de dam Englis only, dat can say,
“Boh! fig for king! by God I'll haf my way.”

‘I haf see court enough—a prince and dook,
But nebber wish on sush as dis to look:
I say ver often to myself—Goode God!
I nebber vish a crown mine head for load!
I do not vish myself more greater efils—
A king of Englis be a king of defils:
To punishment de lousy rascal bring,
And show dem all vat 'tis for be a king.
America haf cover us vid shame;
Jack Wilkes, too, be a dam, dam uglish name;
And sal de paltry cook be conqueror too?—
No, God forbid! as dat vill nebber do.
De hair muss fall before your royal eye,
'Tis someting, fags! to triumph 'pon poor fly.’—
Pleas'd with her voice, the king of nations smil'd,
For pow'r with monarchs is a fav'rite child:—

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‘What! what! not shave 'em, shave 'em, shave 'em, shave 'em?
Not all the world, not all the world shall save 'em.
I'll sheer 'em, sheer 'em, as I sheer my sheep.’—
Thus spoke the mighty monarch in his sleep:
Which proves that kings in sleep a speech may make,
Equal to what they utter broad awake.

Charm'd with the mischief full on fancy's view,
Quick to the major's room the Fury flew;
Put off the form of Schwellenberg, and took
Of Madam Haggerdorn the milder look:
A woman, in whose soul no guile is seen,
The mistress of the robes to our good queen;
A queen, who really has not got her peer;
A queen, to this our kingdom, wondrous dear;
Which shows, however folks are apt to sport,
That all the virtues may be found at court.—
Now, in the major's ear the beldame said,
‘Yan Dixon—Yan, you must not, man, be fraid.
I like mush your peteeshon to de king,
Though George will swear 'tis dam, dam saucy ting;
And swear, dat as his soul is to be save,
Dat ebbry von of you sal all be shave:
Yan Dixon, rader your dear life lay down,
Dan be de laugh (mine Gote) of all de town.
De ver, ver littel boy an girl you meet,
Vill point and laugh and hoot you trow de street.
De same (mine Gote) vill chimney-sweep behave,
And cry, “Dere go de blockhead dat vas shave:”
“Dere go von poor shave fellow!” cry de trull,
“Because he had de louse upon his skull.”
I know he say, dat you sal lose your lock,
Before to morrow mornin twalfe o'clock.
I tink dere may be battle—nebber mind,
I hope dat Godamighty will be kind.
What, if de king make noise about de house,
For noting but his dam confounded louse;
He be but von, you know; an den for you,
Mine Gote! Yan Dixon, you is fifty-two:

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Tink, Yan, how George vas frighten by de mob,
When Lord George Gordon made dat burnin job.
Mine Gote! Yan, mind me, rader lose dy place,
Dan suffer such dam nasty dam disgrace.
I tell you true, indeed, ver true, dear Yan,
His majesty be ver goot sort of man;
But ver ver like indeed as oder men,
Dat is, a leetel stubborn now an den.—
Tink, Yan, of dat ver ugly ting, a wig,
For pot-boy and de pot-girl run der rig!
Boh! filty ting, enough de deffil for scare;
An made perhap of dismal dead man's hair!
I sal not wonders if, dy soul for shock,
A ghost come seize upon der stolen lock.
No, fags! nor vonders if dey come an pull
De vig vid mush, mush fury from dy scull.
Pon som poor strumpet head perhap dat grow'd,
Dat die of dam dissorder, nasty toad!’—
Thus saying, lo! the Fury made retreat,
And left the lord of saucepans in a sweat.
Just like King Richard in his tent, John rear'd,
And verily a man of woes appear'd.
Now handling his small pig-tail, ‘Now you're here,’
Exclaim'd the Major, ‘but not long, I fear:
Perhaps some good may follow this same dream,
And resolution mar this shaving scheme.
Curs'd be the louse that so much mischief bred,
And yields to barbers' boys, the harmless head:
Curs'd be the razor-maker, curs'd the prig
Who thought upon that greasy thing—a wig.
Sure, 'twas some mangy beast, some scabby rogue,
Who brought a thing so filthy into vogue!
Had Nature meant the scare-crow to be worn,
Infants with wigs had certainly been born.—
But, lo! with little hair, and that uncurl'd,
But not with wigs, they come into the world!
What shame, that sheep, that horses, cows, and bulls,
Should club their tails, to furnish Christian sculls!
But what a sacrilegious shame, the dead
Can't keep, poor souls, their locks upon their head!

194

What shame the spectres, in the midnight air,
Should wander, screaming for their plunder'd hair!
Curs'd be the shaving plan, I say again,
Although the bantling of a royal brain!’
Thus curs'd the Major to Night's list'ning ear,
Enough to turn a Christian pale to hear!
Thus, heedless of hereafter, for a pin
Will men and women run their souls in sin!
Now paus'd the Major, with a thoughtful air;
And now soliloquied with solemn stare:—
‘Drunk with dominion, gorg'd with vicious thoughts,
With folly teeming, doz'd by flattery's draughts,
Taught to admire their very maudlin dreams,
And think their brains' dull mudpools, Wisdom's streams,—
Too many a monarch lives; but, lo! not ours!
A king, who Wisdom's very self devours;
Snaps at arts, sciences, where'er they rise,
With all the fire of boys at butterflies.—
Such cannot, surely own little heart;
Therefore our locks and we may never part.’
Now, from a stool, a tinder-box he took,
And fiercely with the stone the steel he struck;
And, after many unsuccessful shocks,
The sparks inflam'd the tinder in the box;
Which, by a match which John did sagely handle,
Gave sudden lustre to a farthing candle.
Thus, if small things with great we may compare,
We see hard pedagogues, with furious air,
Strike with the fist, and often with a stick,
Light through a scholar's scull, ten inches thick.

Now, full illuminated, Dixon stole,
Where lay a master-cook within his hole:
From whence, to all th' inferior cooks they went,
Inclin'd to opposition's big intent;
But, not so fierce, alas! for opposition,
As in the threat'ning, bullying petition;
For men (it is reported) dash and vapour
Less on the field of battle, than on paper.

195

Thus, in the hist'ry of each dire campaign,
More carnage loads the newspaper than plain.
And now the cooks and scullions left each nest;
And now, behold, they one and all were drest.

Lo! sullen to the kitchen mov'd the throng,
Gloom on each eye, and silence on each tongue:
How much like crape-clad mourners round a bier!
But, ah! impress'd with sorrow more sincere;
For oft, at tombs, with joy the bosom burns—
There, 'tis the sable back alone that mourns.
Now making, with a few dry chips, a fire,
They sullen sat, their grief commix'd with ire;
Sad ruminating all around the flame,
Like Harry and his band, of deathless name,
Near Agincourt, expectant of the day
Big with the horrors of a bloody fray;
A fray that threaten'd his poor little band,
To sweep it, just like spiders, to that land
Terra incognita yclep'd, which stretches
Afar!—of which, imperfect are our sketches;
Since all who have survey'd this distant bourn,
So welcom'd, were not suffer'd to return.—
Thus did the cooks expect the fatal morn,
When, sheep-like, ev'ry head was to be shorn.

Now to the whit'ning east they cast their sight,
And wish'd, but vainly, an eternal night:
Not with less pleasure stares upon the day,
The wretch condemn'd hard nature's debt to pay;
Condemn'd ere noon to act a deed abhorr'd;
To stretch, for justice' sake, the fatal cord:
Not with less pleasure shrunk (unknown to shame),
A meat, drink, snuff, and diamond-loving dame,
When told, ‘That if poor Hastings went to pot,
Away went pearls, and jewels, and what not,
Torn from the stomacher so fine, yet foul,
Which Av'rice thirsted for, and Rapine stole:’
Not with less pleasure, in the vale of life,
Poor Egl*n*t*n beheld a youthful wife,

196

(Forc'd, on a bed of ice, sweet flow'r, to bloom;
Ah! forc'd to shine, a sun-beam, on a tomb)
That blooming youthful wife, inclin'd to stray
With Ham*lton, all in a billing way;
Just like two turtles, or a pair of lambs,
Or ewes so playful with the frisky rams:

Not with less glee an old and hopeless maid,
Surveys the sun ascending from the shade;
A sun, that gives a younger sister's charms,
So hated, to a bridegroom's happy arms:
Not with less joy, that raging chaste old maid
Sees the frail fair-ones in the Cyprian trade
Escape the whip and gaol, and hemp beside,
By means of gentle Mister Justice Hyde.
Sweet wrecks of beauty! though, with aspic eye,
And glance disdainful, Prudery pass them by,
With mincing step, and squinting cautious dread,
As though their looks alone contagion shed.—
I view each pallid wretch with grief sincere,
And call on Pity for her tend'rest tear;
See, on their cheeks, the blush of virtue burn;
Hear from their souls, the sigh of ruin mourn;
View, veil'd in horror's gloom, their swimming eyes,
Beaming with hopeless wishes to the skies,
Like the pale Moon's dim solitary form,
Wrapp'd in the darkness of the midnight storm.
Too oft, by Treach'ry's winning smile betray'd,
Too fondly trusting, falls the simple maid!
Too many a Th---l---e walks the world of woe,
To foul of Innocence the sacred snow!
To love, yet nurse the thought of villain art,
How hard a lesson for the partial heart!
Too hard a lesson for the female soul,
Where Love no partner owns, and scorns control.

Not with less pleasure doth a poet look
On cruel criticism, which damns his book,
Or recommends it to that peaceful shore
Where books and bards are never heard of more,

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Than look'd each man, with lengthen'd boding beard,
On that sad morn, which doom'd them to be shear'd:
Not with less pleasure, likewise, let me say,
A hungry author sees his dying play;
Child of his dotage, who surveys its fall,
Just as mankind shall view the tumbling ball;
When sun, moon, stars, and all the distant spheres,
Burst in one general wreck about their ears.
Not with less pleasure did Sir William's eye
See Somerset's bold wing desert its sky;
A fall, at which the nation's purse exclaims,
That thund'ring crush'd the back of roaring Thames:
Not with less pleasure did Sir William's ear,
A second crash of this fam'd fabric hear;
When poor Sir Joshua, with his painting band,
Swore the dread day of judgment just at hand.
Not with less glee, tenacious of his dross,
Ross started—Reader! not the Man of Ross—

198

When majesty, to rest his royal head,
Ask'd of the church's mitred son a bed,—
Poor man! who proving, like his sovereign, poor,
Begg'd him to knock at good Dean Buller's door;
Buller, who took his wand'ring master in,
And stuff'd with corn and oil his scrip and skin;
For which (on gratitude so wont to dote)
The monarch gave a tumbler—worth a groat!

199

O glorious act! an act, how seldom seen!
O what a day of gladness for the Dean!
A gift so rare, so noble, so sublime,
Will stupefy the sons of distant time.
This, let the Buller family record;
This little treasure let the Bullers hoard;

200

Yet show, exulting, upon gala days,
To bid some favour'd guest admire and praise.

Now did the major hum a tune so sad!
Chromatic—in the robes of sorrow clad:
But, lo! the ballad could not fear control,
Nor exorcise the barbers from his soul:
And now his lifted eyes the ceiling sought;
And now he whistled—not for want of thought.
A mournful air the whistling major chose:
Still on his rolling eye the razors rose.
From grave to sprightly now he chang'd—a jig—
Still o'er his haunted fancy wav'd the wig;
Still saw his eye alarm'd, the scratch abhorr'd,
Like wild Macbeth's, the visionary sword.—
Thus, from what kings, alas! may fancy fun,
His loving subjects may be glad to run:
Thus, when St. Swithin from his fountain pours;
St. Swithin, tutelary saint of show'rs;
Beaux skip, belles scamper, fly the cocks and hens,
With drooping plumage, to the shelt'ring pens;
While, lo! the waddling ducks te deum utter,
Flap their glad wings, and gabble through the gutter.

Sing, Muse! or, lo! our canto not complete,
What air he humm'd, and whistled all so sweet.
Homer, of ev'ry thing minutely speaks,
From Heaven's ambrosia, to a camp's beef-steaks:
Then let us, Muse, adopt a march sublime,
And try to rival Homer with our rhime;

201

Who, had a nit, in Juno's tresses bred,
Dropp'd on divine Minerva's wiser head;
Or Cook-like flea, exploring some new track,
Hopp'd from the clouds to Agamemnon's back;
The bard had sung the fall in verse divine,
And critics heard the sound along the line.
Jove call'd his Juno only saucy bitch;
The poet thought it would his song enrich:
Jove, too, just threaten'd, with some birchen rods,
To whip her publicly before the gods;
The bard (though but a flogging bout at most)
Deem'd it, indeed, too sacred to be lost:
Jove call'd his daughter only bitch and fool
(Poor Pallas, treated like a girl at school),
Threaten'd to ham-string her six fav'rite nags,
And tear her bran new phaëton to rags;
The bard, who never wrote an idle word,
Bade his bold verse, the god's bold speech record:
And had the Thund'rer but broke wind, the song
Had, imitative, borne the blast along.—
Then be it known to all the world around,
To folks above, and people underground,
To fish and fowl, and every creeping thing—
Lillibullero, and God save the king,
Were actually the very airs he chose!
But wherefore—God Almighty only knows!

Gallini's Rooms are in this square, in which is performed the celebrated professional concert.

This was a most ludicrous circumstance that happened not long since, when his ***** and the orchestra were left to themselves and God save the king.

This gentleman still retains the place of comptroller of the board of works, to the kingdom's surprise; but demerit in building, as well as in painting, is a sufficient recommendation to a certain species of patrons, particularly if the professors are despised by the people at large. It is the money of this nation, that is sought for, not the merit. The circumstance of being a foreigner too (for this same Sir William Chambers is a Swede), carries with it another strong claim to favouritism!

The present Bishop of Exeter, who, when his majesty visited that ancient city, lately most handsomely excused himself the honour of entertaining his royal master, by billeting him upon Dean Buller. The following lines, extracted from a manuscript performance of one John Ploughshare, called the Royal Progress, we think, will elucidate this part of our epic, and not be unacceptable to our readers.

‘In comm'd the king at laste to town
With doust and zweat az nutmeg brown,
The hosses all in smoke;
Huzzaing, trumpeting, and ringing,
Red colours vleeing, roaring, dringing,
Zo mad zeem'd all the voke.

Wiping his zweaty jaws and poll,
All over douste we spied 'Squire Rolle,
Close by the king's coach trattin;
Now shoving in the coach his head,
Meaning (we thoft) it might be zed,
“'Squire Rolle and George be chattin.”

Now went the Aldermen and May'r,
Zome with cut wigs, and zome with hair,
The royal voke to ken;
When Measter May'r, upon my word,
Pok'd to the king a gert long sword,
Which he pok'd back agen.

Now thoose that round his worship stood,
Declar'd it clumsily was dood;
Yet Squirt, the people zay,
Brandish'd a gert hoss glyster-pipe,
To make un in his lesson ripe,
That took up half a day.

Now down droo Vore-street did they com,
Zum hallowin, and screeching zum:
Now trudg'd they to the dean's;
Becaze the bishop zent mun word,
“A could not meat and drink avord,
A had not got the means.”

A zed, that, ‘az vor he, poor man,
A had not got a pot or pan,
Nor spoon, nor knive, nor vork;
That he was weak, and ould, and squeal,
And zeldom made a hearty meal,
And zeldom drade a cork.’

Indeed, a is a moderate man,
And zo be all the clargy clan,
That with un come to chatter;
Who, when they're ax'd to a glass of wine,
To one the wother they tip the sign,
And beg my lord's fine water.

Then az vor rooms—why, there agen
‘A could not lodge a cock, nor hen,
They were zo small,’ a zed;
And, az vor beds, they wudn't do,
In number about one or two,
Vor self and Joan the maid.

In voolish things, a wudn't be cort,
'Twas stoopid to treat vokes for nort:—
No; twazn't heese desire.
Prefarment, too, waz to an eend;
The king would never more vor'n zend,
To lift un one peg higher.

And yet vokes zay's a man o'sense,
Honest and good—but hoardth his pence;
Can't peart with drink nor met.
An then why vore? the peepel rail:—
To greaze a vat ould pig in the tail—
Ould Weymouth o'Long Leat.

Well, to the dean's, bounce in they went,
And all the day in munchin spent,
And guzlin, too, no doubt;
And, while the gentry drink'd within,
The mob, with brandy, ale, and gin,
Got roaring drunk without.’

A small wig, or rather an apology for a wig, so called, and generally worn by our most amiable and august monarch.

203

CANTO IV.

205

THE ARGUMENT.

Morning and Majesty get out of Bed together—A most solemn and pathetic Address to the Muse, with Respect to Omens—A serious Complaint against the Omens for their Non-appearance on so important an Occasion—The Wives and Daughters of the Cooks seek the Palace, to encourage their Husbands—A beautiful Comparison of Cocks and Hens—The Dismay of the Cooks—The natural History of Eyes—Mister Ramus enters the Kitchen—Mister Ramus is praised for Dexterity in shaving Majesty—Mister Ramus's Consequence with Majesty superior to that of great Ministers—Mister Ramus's namby-pamby name Billy, given by Majesty—The Dread occasioned by Mister Ramus's Appearance amongst the Cooks—Mister Secker, Clerk of the Kitchen, enters in a Passion—Mister Secker threatens tremendously—A Wife of one of the Cooks nobly answers Mister Secker, and vows Opposition—Mister Secker replies with Astonishment, Vociferation, and Threat—The Heroine's Rejoinder to Mister Secker, with much Sarcasm—Mister Secker groweth very wroth—studieth Revenge—Prudence appeareth to him, and administereth

206

great and wholesome Advice—Prudence becalmeth the Clerk of the Kitchen—A second Heroine appeareth, speechifieth, and threateneth—slily alludeth to the immense Wealth of male Majesty, and the Heaps of Diamonds belonging to female Majesty—praiseth her Husband's Cleanliness, and denieth a Louse-Existence in his Head, and squinteth at Mister Secker as the probable Owner of the Animal—Mister Secker rageth a second Time—One of the finest Comparisons in the World, between Mister Secker in a Passion, and a Leg of Mutton and Turnips in the Pot—The Poet pauseth, moralizeth, and trembleth at that Devil, lately introduced to the World, called Equality, the Enemy of Majesty—Some of the sweetest Lines in the World on the Occasion—Prudence re-entereth to becalm Mister Secker, by clapping her Hand on his Mouth—An inexpressibly apt Bottle-of-small-beer Comparison—The Cook-major riseth in Wrath, and is very satirical on Mister Secker—The Clerk of the Kitchen replies with Intrepidity—A great deal of good company rushes into the Kitchen—Mister Secker commands Silence, and announces the Will of his Sovereign—the Sovereign eloquently announceth also his own will—A sweet and sublime Comparison, equal to any thing in Homer.

207

With beauteous Lambert's blush, and Russel's smiles,
Aurora peep'd upon the first of Isles;
And, lo! to bleating flock, and whistling bird,
Uprose the sun, and uprose G. the Third,
Who left his queen so charming, and her room,
To talk of hounds and horses with the groom.
Say, Muse, what! not one cloud with low'ring looks,
To gloom compassion on the heads of cooks?
What! not one solitary omen sent;
Not one small sign, to tell the great event?
On Cato's danger, clouds of ev'ry shape
Hung on the firmament their dismal crape;
Aurora wept, poor girl, with sorrow big;
And Phœbus rose without his golden wig!
But now the skies their usual manners lost,
The sun and moon, and all the starry host!
No raven at the window flapp'd his wings,
And croak'd portentous to the cooks of kings;
No horses neigh'd, no bullocks roar'd so stout;
No sheep, like sheep be-devil'd, ran about;

208

No lightnings flash'd, no thunder deign'd to growl;
No walls re-echo'd to the mournful owl;
No jackass bray'd affright; no ghost 'gan wall;
No comet threaten'd empires with his tail;
No witches, wildly screaming, rode the broom;
No pewter platters danc'd about the room.
Thus unregarded droop'd each menac'd head,
As though the omens all were really dead;
As unregarded (what a horrid slur!)
As though the monarch meant to shave a cur!

Now to the kitchen of the palace came
Full many a damsel sweet, and daring dame,
The wives and daughters of those cooks forlorn
Whose luckless heads were threaten'd to be shorn:
Ire in each eye, and vengeance in each hand,
To cheer their husbands, pour'd the boastful band!
Thus, when the ancient Britons rush'd to battle,
Their wives intrepid join'd the general rattle;
Encouraging their husbands in the fray,
For fear some pale-nos'd rogues might run away:
O glorious act!—repelling coward fear.—
Thus cocks fight bravest when the hens are near.

Now on the band of ladies star'd the cooks,
And seem'd to show hair-ruin in their looks.
Great is the eloquence of eyes indeed—
Much hist'ry in those tell-tale orbs we read!
What though no bigger than a button hole,
Yet what a wondrous window to the soul!
The bosom's joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
In lively colours are depicted here!

Now to the crowded kitchen Ramus springs,
Ramus, call'd Billy by the best of kings;
Who much of razors and of soapsuds knows,
Well skill'd to take great Cæsar by the nose:
Much by his sovereign lov'd, a trusty page,
Who often puts great statesmen in a rage;
Poor lords! compell'd against their will to wait,
Though ass-like laden with affairs of state,

209

Till page and monarch finish deep disputes
On buckskin breeches, or a pair of boots!

Billy, a pretty name of love so sweet,
Familiar, easy, for affection meet!
Thus formal Patrick is transform'd to paddy;
And father, by the children christen'd daddy:
And Oliver, who could e'en kings control,
By many a thousand is baptiz'd Old Noll.

Speak, reader, didst thou ever see a ghost?
If so—thou stoodest, staring like a post:
Thus did the cooks on Billy Ramus stare,
Whose frightful presence porcupin'd each hair.
Now enter'd Secker —and now thus he spoke:—
‘This Louse affair's a very pretty joke!
Arn't you asham'd of it, you dirty dogs?—
Zounds! have you all been sleeping with the hogs?
But mind—you'll be, to all your great delight,
Bald as so many coots before 'tis night.
No murmurs, gentlemen—'tis all in vain:
When monarchs order, who shall dare complain?
Now from the female band, a heroine rav'd,
‘G*d curse me, if my husband shall be shav'd!
You shan't, you shan't the fellow's head disgrace—
I say, the man shall sooner lose his place.
Wigs, like the very devil, I loath, I hate—
And curse me, if a nightcap hugs his pate.’—
‘How, impudence!’ the wrathful Secker cry'd,
With horror staring, and a mouth yard wide—
‘Where, where's my stick, my cane, my whip, my switch?’
‘Who taught rebellion t'ye, you saucy b---?
‘Myself,’ with hands akembow cry'd the dame—
‘I tell ye, Mister Secker, 'tis a shame—
I tell ye that the cooks will all be fools,
To suffer razors to come near their skulls.
Bitch too, forsooth the language of a hog!
If I'm a bitch, then somebody's a dog.’

210

Now all th' internal man of Secker boil'd—
From thought to thought of turbulence he toil'd:
Now, resolution-fraught, he wish'd to stick her.
Now in her face to spit, and now to kick her.
But Prudence in that very moment came,
And sweetly whisper'd to the man of flame—
‘Fie, Secker! kick a woman! Secker, fie!
On matter more sublime, thy prowess try—
No glory springs from kicking wives of cooks.
Strive to surpass great kings in binding books;
Transcend great kings in forcing stubborn kine
To breakfast on horse chesnuts, sup, and dine;
In educating pigs, be thou as deep!
And learn, like kings, to feel the rumps of sheep.
Go, triumph at the market towns with wool:
Go, breed for lady-cows the bravest bull;
Tow'r o'er the scepter'd great in fat of lambs,
And rise a rival in the breed of rams.—
These be thine acts—from hence fair glory flows,
Whose beam, a bonfire round a monarch glows,
Surpass in charity towards the poor;
Nor bully starving merit from the door.
Behold, for patronage lean genius pant:
What though the wealthy great a taste may want,
Yet, would they cast their eyes on pining merit,
Those eyes would quickly warm her frozen spirit.
The fool may lift the mourner from the tomb,
And bid the buried seeds of genius bloom.
Yes, fools of Fortune, did those fools incline
To look on humble worth, might bid her shine:
Thus tallow candles in a chandelier,
Make the keen beauties of the glass appear,
Call into note a thousand trembling rays,
And share the merit of the mingled blaze.
The great should sun-like bid their treasures flow,
Whose beams wide-spreading no distinction know;
But equal bid the crab and pine be ripe;
And light at once a system and a pipe.’

211

Thus Prudence spoke, when Secker to the dame
Confess'd his fault, and stopp'd the bursting flame.
Now storm'd a second heroine from the band,
Call'd Joan, and full at Secker made a stand—
‘I say, Tom shan't be shav'd—he shan't—he shan't,
Leek porridge, stir-about, we'll sooner want;
We'll rather hunt the gutters for our meat!
Cry mackrel, or sing ballads through the street;
Foot stockings, mend old china, or black shoes,
Sooner than Tom, poor soul, his locks shall lose.
Humph! what a pretty hoity toity's here?
Thomas, I say, shan't lose his locks, poor dear!
Shav'd too! 'cause people happen to be poor—
I never heard of such a trick before.
Folks, think they may take freedoms with a cook—
Go, ask your master if he'd shave a duke.
No—if he dar'd to do it, I'll be curst:
No Secker, he would eat the razor first.
Good lord! to think poor people's heads to plunder.
Why, lord! are people drunk, or mad, I wonder?
What! shall my poor dear husband lose his locks
Because a han't ten millions in the stocks?
Because on me, forsooth, a can't bestow
A di'mond petticoat, to make a show?
Marry come up, indeed—a pretty joke—
Any thing's good enough for humble folk:
Shov'd here and there, forsooth; call'd dog and b---,
God bless us well, because we are not rich.
People will soon be beat about with sticks,
Forsooth, because they han't a coach and six.
A shan't be shav'd, and I'am his lawful wife:
The man was never lousy in his life.
Ax what his mother says—his nearest kin—
“Tom never had a blotch upon his skin,
But when a had the measles and small pox.”
What for, then, shall the fellow lose his locks?
“She never in her life-time saw (she says)
A tidier, cleanlier lad, in all her days—
And all her neighbours said with huge surprise,
A finer boy was never seen with eyes!”

212

So, Mister Secker, let's have no more touse—
Hunt further for the owner of the Louse.
Sir, 'tis a burning shame, I'm bold to say,
To take poor people's character away.
Who knows the varmine isn't your own, odsfish!
You're fond of peeping into ev'ry dish.’

Again of Secker boil'd th' internal man;
Thought urging thought, again to rage began:
Huge thoughts of diff'rent sizes swell'd his soul;
Now mounting high, now sinking low, they roll;
Bustling here, there, up, down, and round about;
So wild the mob, so terrible the rout!
How like a leg of mutton in the pot,
With turnips thick surrounded all so hot!
Amid the gulph of broth, sublime, profound,
Tumultuous, jostling, how they rush around!
Now up the turnips mount with skins of snow,
While restless, lab'ring mutton dives below—
Now lofty soaring, climbs the leg of sheep,
While turnips downwards plunges 'mid the deep!
Strange such resemblances in things shoul lie!
But what escapes the poet's piercing eye?
Just like the sun—for what escapes his ray,
Who darts on deepest shade the golden day!

Muse, let us pause a moment—here we see
A woman, certainly of low degree,
Reviling folk of elevated station;
Thus waging war with mild subordination.
Should sweet subordination chance to die,
Adieu to kings and courtier-men so high;
Then will that imp equality prevail,
Who knows no diff'rence between head and tail;
Then majesty, the lofty nose who lifts,
With tears shall wash and iron her own shifts;
To darn her stockings, from her height descend;
Which now are giv'n to Mackenthun to mend—

213

Turn her fair fingers into vulgar paws,
And wash her dirty laces and her gauze.
Then dimn'd are coronets that awe inspire,
And sceptres stuff'd, like faggots in the fire.
Ne'er let me view the hour, my soul that shocks,
When female majesty shall wash her smocks:
Such humbled grandeur let me never see:
Soapsuds and sovereignty but ill agree:
Malkin and majesty but ill accord:
Rubbers and royalty are kin abhorr'd!
Strange union! 'tis the vulture and the bat;
A gulf and mudpool—elephant and rat;
A great archbishop, and an undertaker;
The muse of epic, and a riddle-maker;
A roaring king in tragedy sublime,
And he who plays poor pug in pantomime;
The lord who in the senate wonder draws,
Firm in the fair support of freedom's cause;
And that same Lord, behind the scenes, a snail,
Who, crawling, of an actress holds the tail;
Marchesi on the stage with steel and plume,
And that Marchesi in a lady's room;
Sir Joseph , Jove-like, with his hammer'd arm,
Who thund'ring breaks of sleep the opiate charm;
And that Sir Joseph, with a simple look,
Collecting simples near the simple brook.

Again came Prudence, quaker-looking form,
Sweet-humour'd goddess, to suppress the storm,
Who clapp'd her hands (indeed an act uncouth)
Full on the gaping hole of Secker's mouth;
Compressing thus a thousand iron words,
Sharp ev'ry soul of them as points of swords:
But soon her hand forsook his lips and chin,
Who own'd the goddess, and but gave a grin.

214

Thus from a fretful bottle of small beer,
If, mad, the cork should leap with wild career;
Lo, to the bottle's mouth the butler flies,
And with dexterity his hand applies!
In vain the liquor bustles 'mid the dome;
John quells all fury, and subdues the foam!
Now rose the major—‘Mister Secker—sir,
You make in this affair a pretty stir!
'Twere doubtless a fine present in a box,
To offer to our sovereign lord, the locks:
Some vast reward would follow to be sure;
A pretty little, sweet snug sinecure.
Yes—Master Secker well can play his cards:
Sublime achievements claim sublime rewards.
I humbly do presume, sir, that his grace
Has promis'd ye a warm exciseman's place:—
Some folks are jacks-in-office, fond of power!’
Thus spoke the cook, like vinegar so sour.
‘No matter, Master Major, what I get;
All that I know, is this, your heads shall sweat:
I'll see the business done, depend upon't—
I'll order matters, d---n me, if I don't:
Yes, Master Dixon, you shall know who's who—
Which is the better gemman, I or you.’
Thus answers Secker to the man of woes,
And points his satire with a cock'd-up nose.
Scarce had he utter'd, when a noise was heard;
And now behold a motley band appear'd!
With Babel sounds at once the kitchen rings,
Of groom, page, barber, and the best of kings!
And lo, the best of queens must see the fun;
And lo, the princesses so beauteous run;
And Madam Schwellenberg came hobbling too;
Poor lady, losing in the race a shoe!
But in revenge-pursuit, the loss how slight!
The world would lose a leg, to please a spite.

And now for peace did Secker bawl aloud;
And lo, peace came at once among the crowd.

215

In courts of justice thus, to hush the hum,
‘Silence,’ the crier calls, and all his mum—
‘Cooks, scullions, all, of high and low degree,
Attend, and learn our monarch's will from me.
Our sovereign lord the king, whose word is fate,
Wills in his wisdom to see shav'd each pate:
Then, gentlemen, pray take your chairs at once;
And let each barber fall upon his sconce.’—
Thus thunder'd Secker with a Mars-like face,
And struck dire terror through the roasting race.
Thus roar'd Achilles 'mid the martial fray,
When ev'ry frighted Trojan ran away.

Calm was the crowd, when thus the king of isles,
Firm for the shave, but yet with kingly smiles—
‘You must be shav'd—you shall, you must indeed:
No, no, I shan't let slip a single head—
A very filthy, nasty, dirty trick—
The thought on't turns my stomach—makes me sick,
Louse—louse—a nasty thing, a louse I hate:—
No, no, I'll have no more upon my plate.
One is sufficient—yes, yes—quite a store—
I'll have no more—no more, I'll have no more.’

Thus spoke the king, like ev'ry king who gives
To triftes, lustre that for ever lives.
Thus stinking vapours from the oozy pool,
Of cats and kittens, dogs and puppies full,
Bright sol sublimes, and gives them golden wings,
The cloud on which some say, the cherub sings.

Late clerk of the kitchen.

A lady, attendant on the princesses,

Sir Joseph Banks. A part of his royal insignia is a hammer to knock down a dispute, and keep the Royal Society awake.

217

CANTO V.

Finis coronat opus.

219

THE ARGUMENT.

The humane Petition of the Princess Royal—His M---y's rebukeful Reply, full of Grandeur, and favourable to the Wig Interest—The Princess retires—As sublime a Comparison as ever entered the Head of Man, as Addison said of his Angel-simile in his famous and long-forgotten Campaign—The Princess Augusta petitioneth with equal Success—A most beautiful Comparison also on the Occasion—The Bard again addresseth the Muse—The Cooks turn rank Cowards, as well as their Wives and Daughters, overpowered by the Blaze of Majesty, and a golden Coat—A Bible Simile—A sensible Exclamation of the Poet, on the unexpected Cowardice of the Cooks—A fine West-Indian Comparison—The Poet pathetically mourneth over the gradual Decay of Royalty—The impudent and foolish Speech of the Mob in regard to Royalty and the Great—The Poet's short and judicious Reflection on the Speech of the Mob—The Cook-Major's pathetic Speech to the King—Madam Schwellenberg most scornfully and angrily replieth to the Cook-Major's Speech—Another Great Lady's Speech, composed of less Acrimony than Madam Schwellenberg's—His M---y

220

adviseth the Cooks to be quietly shaved, and promiseth them Wigs gratis—Dame Avarice remonstrateth to M---y on the Folly of the Present of Wigs, with strong and economical Reasons—Dame Avarice abuseth some of the Quality; and applaudeth her M---y for the many Instances of her saving Powers—His M---y becometh a convert to the Speech of Dame Avarice—The Poet's fine Reflection on Generosity—His M---y ordereth the Cooks to be seated for the Shave—The K--- speaketh Marvels in favour of Majesty—Deep Reflections of the Poet on Ambition, with the various Examples of her Power—The Cooks at length submit to be shaved—An American comparison on the Occasion, perhaps not pleasing to certain Great People!—The Poet addresseth the Muse on the Want of a Battle, so necessary to an Epic Poem—The Poet, glorying in Honour, refuseth to make a Battle where there was none; proclaiming at the same Time his Ability, were a Battle necessary—His M---y exulteth in his Victory over the Cooks—His M---y endeavoureth to prove by Assertion the Property of the Louse—Also the certainty of its being a real Louse, by his great Acquaintance with Natural History—The K---, in his great Justice, showeth the little Animal, by way of conviction—The Poet exhibiting biblical and classical Knowledge in an Account of Animals that have spoken, in order to reconcile the Reader's revolting Mind to the Speech of
221

the Louse—The Louse speechifieth, and giveth a wonderful History of himself, his Family, and Misfortune—Louse proveth the superior Antiquity of his Race to that of Kings—The K---, in Wrath, giveth Louse the Lie, and endeavoureth his Destruction—Zephyr, trembling at his Danger, suddenly beareth him off to the celestial Region; and, after twice changing his Mind, converteth him into a Star, discovered soon after by the Great Doctor Herschell, and his Spy-Glass, which, in compliment to his Majesty, the Doctor baptized the Georgium Sidus!!!

223

Now, with the sweetest lips that love inspire,
The Princess Royal thus address'd her—:
‘O sir, for once attend a daughter's pray'r—
Restrain your fury from your people's hair:
A thousand blessings will their mouths bestow,
And ev'ry heart with gratitude o'erflow:
For such a vict'ry, who would give a fig?
Pray, sir, don't make them wear a nasty wig.’
Such sounds, so sweet, nay so divinely broke,
As might have mollified the sturdy oak,
Were doom'd, in vain, on royal ears to fall!
Yet music drove the devil out of Saul!
To her the—, with most astonish'd eyes,
And surly wrinkled brows so stern, replies;
‘What, what? not shave 'em, shave 'em, now they're caught?
What! have this pretty hubbub all for nought?
No, no, girl; no, girl; no, girl; no, girl—no—
Beg on till doomsday, girl—it shan't be so.
How, how, pray, would it look, how, how, pray, look?
People would swear I could not shave a cook.
You call wigs nasty, miss? Fine speech, indeed!
Don't, don't you see I've one upon my head?

224

Go back, go back, Miss Pert,’ he bluntly cry'd;
Then with his elbow push'd the nymph aside:
Although he did not box her lovely ears,
He drown'd the radiance of her eye with tears.

Far from the wrathful—the maid withdrew,
And veil'd her modest beauties from his view.
Thus when the virgin morn her blushes spreads,
And paints with purest ray the mountain heads;
Behold, those blushes so divine to shroud,
The surly Boreas gathers ev'ry cloud;
Bids the huge phalanx seek the smiling east,
And blot the lustre of her crimson vest:
From pole to pole extends the black'ning band;
Cloud pressing cloud, obeys his rude command:
In tears she moves away, the heav'nly maid,
And leaves him monarch of the mighty shade.

Now o'er his lofty shoulder, with a sigh,
The fair Augusta cast a pitying eye;
And whisper'd, ah! so soft, so sweet a prayer,
To save from razor-rage the heads of hair!
When lo, the ------!
‘What, you too, miss, petition for a knave?
You, you, too, miss, an enemy to shave?’

Mute was the maid; when lo, with modest looks,
Distress'd, she shrunk away from ------ and cooks:
Thus, o'er a should'ring cloud the moon so bright
Oft gives a peep of momentary light;
Much as to say, ‘I wish my smiles to grant,
To cheer you darkling mortals, but I can't.’
Sing, heav'nly goddess, how the cooks behav'd,
Who swore they'd all be d**n'd ere they'd be shav'd;
Who penn'd to majesty the bold petition,
And daring fum'd with rebel opposition!

Cow'd, cow'd, alas! the lords of saucepans feel—
Each heart so val'rous sunk into the heel:
And then, each threat'ning Amazonian dame—
Her spirit drooping, and extinct her flame—

225

For lo, of ------ the pow'rful blaze,
His coat's bright gold, and eyeball's rolling gaze,
Just like the light that cover'd sad Saint Paul,
Flash'd on their visages, and smote them all!
Who could have thought that things would thus have ended?
Fate seemingly a dreadful crash intended!
Such stately resolution in the cooks,
Such fierce demeanour in their spouses' looks!
But thus in Western India Jove ordains
At times an aspect wild of hurricanes:
Dark grows the sky, with gleams of threat'ning red:
All nature dumb, the smallest zephyr dead—
Bird, beast, and mortal, trembling, pausing, still,
Expectant of the tempest's mighty will:
Tremendous pause! when lo, by small degrees,
Light melts the mass; with life returns the breeze;
And Danger, on his cloud, who scowl'd dismay,
Moves sullen with his threat'ning glooms away.

There royalty succeeded; but, alas!
In foreign climes this gold will scarcely pass.
Sorry am I indeed, and griev'd to hear,
That royalty is falling from its sphere;
War's mighty first-rate dwindling to a skiff;
The knees of Adoration waxing stiff,
That bent so pliantly to folk of state—
Cock-turkey Grandeur verging to his fate.
But thus exclaims the mob:—‘In folly far,
Folk deem'd a beam from bogs a falling star,
And fancied thunder, all so dread, ador'd,
The voice tremendous of an anger'd Lord;
The lightning his swift vengeance—never dreaming
That mortals, ever poring, ever scheming,
Should find that in a phial they should lock it,
And bear Heav'n's vengeance in their breeches pocket.
See France! lo, Homage much has lost her awe,
And blushes now to kiss the lion's paw:
Nay, dares to fancy (an old rebel jade)
Emp'rors and thrones of like materials made;

226

Nay, fancy too (on bold rebellion's brink)
That subjects have a right to speak and think;
Revileth ------, for praise and wonder born;
Calleth crowns fool caps, that their heads adorn;
And sacred sceptres, which we here adore,
Mean picklocks for the houses of the poor.—
Thus Curiosity no longer springs,
And wide-mouth'd Wonder gapes no more at kings.
Heavens! if Equality all ranks confounds,
No more shall we be whistled to like hounds;
Freedom will talk to kings in dauntless tone,
And female majesty be just plain Joan!

Now taking courage, to his honest breast
His hand the major energetic press'd;
Cloth'd with humility's mild beam his eye,
He thus address'd the ------ with a sigh:—
‘O ------! you've call'd me an old fool, to whine:
But I'm not old—still many a year is mine;
So white, as though from Time, my temples grow,
Ingratitude's cold hand hath form'd their snow—
Grief dims these eyes, and whitens ev'ry hair;
And, lo, my wrinkles are the tracks of care!
To tread Life's wild, unwounded by a thorn,
Was ne'er the lucky lot of woman-born.
Man should be kind to man, O best of ------,
And try to blunt the ills that Nature brings;
Not bid the cup of bitterness o'erflow,
And to her thousands add another woe.
Ah! if a trifle can a smile employ,
How cruel, sir, to kill the infant joy!
How faint of happiness the scatter'd ray,
That cheers of life, alas! the little day;
While Care and Sorrow's imp-like host invade,
And fill a sighing universe with shade!
Then bid your noble indignation cease,
And suffer our poor locks to rest in peace.’
He ended—Now, with scorn so keen inspir'd,
And anger, uninvited, undesir'd,

227

Did Madam Schwellenberg, devoid of grace,
O'er the ---'s shoulder poke her cat-like face;
And thus: ‘Mine Got den ------ vat a saucy vretch!
How cleberly dis poor old fella preach!
Bring him de polepit—dat he shall be pote in—
Jan beat de Mettodisses all as notin.’

Now spoke the spouse of our most glorious ------,
Who deem'd a louse a very nasty thing;
For folk of Strelitz are so neat and clean,
They think on vermin with abhorrent mien!
For cleanliness so much in Strelitz thrives,
Folks never saw a louse in all their lives;
‘Mine Gote! 'mong men an women, an de boys,
Dis shave indeed make very pretty noise!
Goote Gote! make rout about a leetel hair!
Wig be de fashion—Dixon, take de shair—
Sheet down, and don't make hubbub shust like pig:
Dere's notin terrible about a wig.
Mine Gote! de tremblin fellow seem afred,
As if we put a tiger 'pon his head—
De ladies now wear wig upon der crown;
So sheet you down, Jan Dixon, sheet you down.
Cook tell his king and queen he von't be shave!
Egote! de Englis don't know how behave!
Let cook say so in Strelitz, ah! mine Gote!
Dere would be soldiers dat would cut der troat,
Yon know dat king an queen, you rebel, Jan,
Can cut your head off in a moment, man—
Lord! den, you may be tankfull dat we spare,
An only cut off goote-for-notin hair.
You know dat in our history you read,
How king of Englond cut off subjects head!’—
Now silence broke the ------: ‘Sit down, sit down!
Come, come, let ev'ry barber take his crown;
I'll show some mercy, t'ye, ye nasty pigs;
For mind, mind, mind, I'll pay for all the wigs!’

At these last words, forth crawl'd an ancient dame,
Sharp-nos'd, half-starv'd, and Avarice her name;

228

With wrinkled neck, and parchment-like to view,
That e'en the coarsest kerchief seldom knew;
With hawk-like eyes that glisten'd o'er her gold,
And, raptur'd, ev'ry hour her treasure told;
Who of her fingers form'd a comb so fair,
And with a garter filleted her hair;
Who fiercely snatch'd, with wild devouring eyes,
An atom of brown sugar from the flies;
Made a sad candle from a dab of fat,
And stole a stinking fish head from a cat;
Saves of the mustiest bread the crumbs, and sees
A dinner in the scrapings of a cheese:
Whiffling a stump of pipe, a frequent treat,
That gives the stomach smoke, poor thing for meat:
Forth hobbled this old dame, with shaking head,
Like, in her crooked form, the letter zed—
The Palace-watch, and guardian most severe
Of drops of dying and of dead small-beer:
A dame who hated idle dogs and cats,
And trembled at a rompus of the rats;
Nay, listen'd, jealous of a scratching mouse,
Afraid the imp might swallow the whole house;
The province her's, to sell old palace shoes,
Old hats, old coats, and breeches to the Jews;
And drive, with dog-like fury, from the door,
The plaintive murmurs of the famish'd poor:
The dame who bade the great Sir Francis sell
The sacred pulpit, and the good old bell !
Forth hobbled she, and in a quick shrill tone,
Thus to the king of nations spoke the crone:—
‘God bless us, sir, why give me leave to say,
Your ------ is throwing things away!

229

What! give the fellows wigs for every head!
A piece of rare extravagance indeed!
Let them buy wigs themselves, a dirty crew!
An't please your ------, what's that to you?
You buy the rascals wigs, indeed, so nice!
It only gives encouragement to lice.
Marry come up, indeed, I say—new wigs!
No—let them suffer for't, the nasty pigs!
Lord! they can well afford it—sir, their hair
Costs (Heav'n protect us!) what would make you stare.
Hours in the barber's hands, forsooth, they sit
Reading the newspapers, and books of wit!
Just like our men of quality, forsooth,
Each full-ag'd gentleman, and dapper youth!
Newmarket now, and now the nation studying,
In clouds of flour sufficient for a pudding.
Lord! what extravagance I see and hear!
Unlike your majesty, and madam there,
Our great consume and squander, fling away—
'Tis rout and hubbub—spend, spend, night and day
Such racketting, that people's peace destroys,
As if the world was only made for noise.
Would ev'ry duchess copy our good queen,
More money in their purses would be seen;
Her ------ to things can condescend,
Which our fine quality, with nose an end,
Behold with such contempt, and such a grin,
As though a little saving was a sin!
Her ------, God bless her! does not scorn
To see a stocking and a shoe well worn;
To mend, or darn, or clean a lutestring gown,
So mock'd, indeed, by all the great in town,
Her ------ at Frogmore , day and night,
Can to their labour keep her pupils tight;

230

See that to milliners no trifle goes,
That may be done beneath her own great nose.
Her ------ can buy a hat, or cloak,
In shops, indeed, as cheap as common folk:
She will not be impos'd upon, she says—
O what a good example for our days!
When Prudence dictates, lo, no pride she feels:
Could order shoes to come with copper heels.
Yes, ------ could nobly pride renounce,
And make a handsome jacket of a flounce;
'Stead of lawn gauze, descend to humble crape,
And, 'stead of ribbon, draw a gown with tape;
Turn hats to bonnets, by her prudence led,
And clean a tarnish'd spangled shoe with bread:
A gown's worn sleeve from long to short devote,
And into pockets cut an upper coat;
Cut shifts to night-caps, satin cloaks to muffs,
And calmly frill groat ribbons into ruffs:
Blest with the rarest economic wits,
Transform an old silk stocking into mits;
Transform too (so convertible are things!)
E'en flannel petticoats to caps for ------.
And then your ------, whom God long keep;
How fond, indeed, of every thing that's cheap!
“Best is best cheap”—you very wisely cry;
And so, an't please your majesty, say I.
Lord bless us! why should people spend and riot,
When people can so save by living quiet?
Give to the poor, forsooth! a rare exploit!
Catch what you can, and never give a doit,
To Saving, every one should go to school—
To my mind, Generosity's a fool.
Give, sir, no wigs to cooks; for, as I say,
'Tis kindness and good money flung away.’
Thus ended Avarice, at last, her speech,
With praise of ------ and ------, and saving, rich.

231

Such words deliver'd with a solemn air,
Gave to the ------ of men's great eye a stare.
‘Right, right, 'tis very right,’ the ------ cries,
And on his millions rolls his mental eyes—
‘Right, Mistress Avarice, right, right, indeed
I won't buy wigs for every nasty head,
No, no, they'll save it, save it as you say—
I won't, I won't, I won't fling pence away!’

Here let us pause again, and think how hard
That good intentions should be quickly marr'd!
Ah? Generosity's a tender plant,
It's root so weakly, and its bearings scant!
Self-love, too near it, robs it of each ray,
And thirsty sucks the rills of life away.
Vile weed! (like docks, in coarsest soil which start)
That thriveth in the cold and flinty heart.—
‘Come, come, sit down,’ the ------ deign'd to rave;
‘Cooks, cooks, sit down—Come, barbers, shave, shave, shave.
Yes, yes, I think 'tis right, 'tis right and just—
Indeed you must be shav'd—you must, you must:
Cooks must not over their superiors tow'r—
We must, must show the world that we have pow'r.’
Thus, by ambition fir'd, the ------ ended
A speech to be transcended, but not mended.
What diff'rent roads to Fame, Ambition takes!
What hubbub in this under world she makes!
Ambition, the queen-passion of the soul!
Ev'n Love, sweet Love, indeed, has less control.
Ambition makes the wise a fool at court;
Ambition drowns an alderman in port;
Ambition spurs our great in plays to spout—
Spurr'd Sir John Dick to gain a star by Croute;
Bade Lady Mary for a eunuch sigh,
And Richmond unto battles turn his eye,
To beam the cynosure of Bagshot wars,
And give Posterity a British Mars.
Ambition bade sour Johnson lick the throne,
And blink at ev'ry merit but his own;

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Boswell with praise a Hottentot besmear,
And give his country up to lead a bear.
Ambition bade Sir Will make new, old jugs,
And bake an immortality in mugs:
Bade round the world the fam'd Sir Joseph float,
To kiss Queen Oberea in the boat;
And spurs him now his blood's last drop to shed,
In quest of butterflies without a head.
Ambition nobly spurr'd the ------ of men
To walk through Herschell's tube, and back agen;
A deed whose lustre Envy must allow,
Deep plann'd at Windsor, and perform'd at Slough !
Ambition spurr'd a man of royal birth,
To humble Madam Schwellenberg to earth.
Thus, to the gardens of imperial Kew,
When Madam Schwellenberg, for health, withdrew,
And round the alleys of that fam'd abode,
Sweet ambling, jigging, on a jackass rode;
Lo, ------ so sly, with stick and pin,
Drove the sharp mischief through Jack's frighten'd skin!
At once the beast, with sudden start and bound,
Wild plunging, hurl'd the lady to the ground;
Where, lo, such things appear'd (her legs I mean)
As never ought by mortals to be seen;
Legs that ne'er saw, ye gods! the sun before!
Such legs! as set great Cæsar in a roar.
Ambition bids the man of ropes, or figs,
Or fish, or brass, or foolscap, peas, or pigs,
Sigh for the golden chain, and coach so fair;
In short, to shine the city's sun—lord may'r!
Blest man! in pomp to visit at St. James,
And pour his gilded barges on the Thames;
Devour with nobles in th' Egyptian hall,
And trip it with a duchess at the ball!
Rich honours! but what pity my lord may'r!
Should lose at length his chain and coach so fair,

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And gorgeous gown, and wig, and bright attire,
And converse sweet of lord, and knight, and 'squire,
Sheriffs and councilmen, and common hunt;
To sweat with candles, or with hogs to grunt;
Bid waoo, for greasy mutton-lights, adieu;
Drop wigs for nightcaps, robes for apron blue:
And quit of Justice the celestial scales,
To weigh cheese, sugar, tallow, or hobnails!
Instead of questions from the best of kings,
On solid matters, consequential things,
To hear a raggamuffin in his shop—
‘Soap, Master Guttle, quick, a pound of soap!’
With such a careless, broad, irrev'rent stare,
As though the chandler ne'er had been lord may'r
But so it is—poor Merit oft complains!
Blest is the mortal born with goose's brains!
What signifies the wisdom of the schools,
If Fortune only will make love to fools?

Now to the cooks, O wandering Muse, return,
For, lo, our readers with impatience burn!
Aw'd by the voice of ------, and ------, and page,
And Madam Schwellenberg's relentless rage,
Down sat the cooks, amid a wond'ring host;
The barbers labour'd, and the locks were lost!
Thus when Burgoyne, opposing all the fates,
Defied, at Saratoga, General Gates;
Sudden the hero dropp'd his threat'ning fist.
And wisely deem'd it folly to resist;
Dropp'd in the victor's arms, (unlucky lot!)
And saw his legions sink without a shot!—
Speak, heav'nly goddess! was there then no fray,
No drops of blood effus'd to mark the day?
No fisty-cuffs, no eyes as black as night,
No cat-like scratches, no revengeful bite?—
Nor fisty-cuffs, nor eyes as black as night,
Nor cat-like scratches, nor revengeful bite,
The Palace witness'd.—Thus the Muse divine
Must close, without one drop of blood, the line;
And readers, baulk'd of deeds of high renown,
Perhaps shall, grumbling for their money, frown.

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What can we do, if Fate produc'd no fray?
The poet dares not make a murd'rous day—
Should Falsehood's tale my sacred song defile,
Which damneth half th' historians of our isle;
How could I hold aloft my tuneful head,
Or proudly hope at doomsday to be read;
The glowing wish of ev'ry son of rhime,
To live a fav'rite to the end of time!
Yet nought were easier than to form a fray,
And bring a dozen Gods to aid the day—
Yet nought were easier than to raise a battle—
Make iron head-piece against head-piece rattle;
Nails, nails oppose, and grinders, grinders greet,
Nose poke at nose, and stomachs stomachs meet;
Wild-rolling eye-balls against eye-balls glare;
The dusty floor be strew'd with teeth and hair;
Caps, petticoats, and kerchiefs, load the ground;
The trembling roofs with mingled cries resound;
Legs of joint-stools, and chairs, their vengeance pour;
And blocks and mopsticks fly, a wooden show'r;
Raise clamours equal to an Indian yell,
Transcended only by the cries of hell;
And bid old Erebus, in sulphur strong,
Display his flaming cauldron in our song.

Proud of the shave, the ------ of nations smil'd;
Nay, laugh'd triumphant, with his glory wild:
But still to show his justice, thus he said—
‘Mind, mind me, gentry with the shaven head:
Know, know the Louse belongs to some of you—
It is a louse—it is—'tis very true:
Yes, yes, belongs to some one of the house—
I've read Buffon—yes, yes, I know a louse.’
A pill-box then he op'd, with eager look,
And show'd the crawler, to convince each cook.
The long-ear'd beast of Balaam, lo, we find,
Sharp to the beast that rode him spoke his mind;
The mournful Xanthus (says the bard of old),
Of Peleus' warlike son the fortune told:

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Thus to the captive Louse was language giv'n,
Which proves what int'rest Justice holds in Heav'n.
The vermin, rising on his little rump,
Like ladies' lag-dogs, that for muffin mump,
Thus, solemn as our bishops, when they preach,
Made, to the best of ------, his maiden speech:
‘Know, mighty ------, I was born and bred
Deep in the burrows of a page's head;
There took I sweet Lousilla unto wife,
My soul's delight—the comfort of my life;
But on a day, your page, sir, dar'd invade
Cowslip's sweet lips, your faithful dairy-maid;
Great was the struggle for the short-liv'd bliss;
At length he won the long-contested kiss!—
When, 'mid the struggle, thus it came to pass;
Down dropp'd my wife and I upon the lass;
From whence we crawl'd (and who's without ambition?
Who does not wish to better his condition?)
To you, dread sir, where, lo, we lov'd and fed,
Charm'd with the fortune of a greater head;
Where, safe from nail and comb, and blust'ring wind,
We nestled in your little lock behind;
Where many a beauteous baby plainly proves,
Heav'n, like a ---'s, can bless a louse's loves;
Where, many a time, at court, I've join'd your grace,
And with you gallop'd in the glorious chase;
Lousilla, too, my children, and my nits,
Just frighten'd sometimes out of all their wits,
It happen'd, sir, ah! luckless, luckless day!
I foolish took it in my head to stray—
How many a father, mother, daughter, son,
Are oft by curiosity undone!
Dire wish! for, 'midst my travels, urg'd by Fate,
From you, O ------, I fell upon your plate!
Sad was the precipice!—and now I'm here,
Far from Lousilla and my children dear!
Who now, poor souls! in deepest mourning all,
Groan for my presence, and lament my fall.
Nitilla now, my eldest girl, with sighs
Bewails her father lost, with streaming eyes;

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And Grubbinetta, with the loveliest mien,
In state, in temper, and in form a queen;
And sturdy Snap, my son, a child of grace,
His father's image both in form and face;
And Diggory, poor lad, and hopeful Scratch,
Boys that Lousilla's soul was proud to hatch;
And little Nibble, too, my youngest son,
Will ask his mother where his father's gone;
Who (poor Lousilla!) only will reply
With turtle moan, and tears in either eye.
Thus, sir, are you mistaken all this while,
And ------ and pages, that our race revile,
As though our species could not life adorn,
And that th' Almighty made a louse in scorn.
Yet, if to genealogy we go.
The louse is of the elder house, I trow,
E'er God (so Moses says) did man create,
Lo, our first parents walk'd the world in state.
Such is the hist'ry of your loyal louse,
Whose presence breeds such tumult in the house:
Thus, sir, you see no blame to cooks belong;
Thus ------, for once, is in the wrong!’

Thus, in the manly tones of Fox and Pitt,
To ------, intrepid, spoke the son of nit:
Firm in his language to the king of wrath,
As little David to the man of Gath;
Ordain'd, in oratory, to surpass
The speech ------ th' immortal speech of Balaam's ass.

‘Lies! lies! lies! lies!’ reply'd the furious ------;
‘'Tis no such thing! no, no, 'tis no such thing!’
Then quick he aim'd, of red-hot anger full,
His nails of vengeance at the louse's skull:
But Zephyr, anxious for his life, drew near,
And sudden bore him to a distant sphere;
In triumph rais'd the animal on high,
Where Berenice's locks adorn the sky;

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But now he wish'd him nobler fame to share,
And crawl for ever on Belinda's hair:
Yet to the louse was greater glory giv'n;
To roll a planet on the splendid heav'n.
And draw of deep astronomers the ken;
The Georgium Sidus of the sons of men!!!

Sir Francis Drake. Verily this is a fact. The baronet lately disposed of the pulpit and bell of the old chapel at Nutwell, in Devonshire, built by his immortal ancestor. The annual interest of four shillings was too fascinating to be withstood!

A farm near Windsor, where a parcel of young women, the protégées of majesty, are constantly employed in working beds, and very well know the meaning of the phrase—‘Working one's fingers to the stumps.’

A village near Windsor, the residence of Dr. Herschell.

The horse of Achilles.

The louse shows great biblical knowledge.