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

‘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!’