The R---l First-Born or The Baby Out of His Leading-Strings: Containing the Particulars of Ap---y Confirmation, by the B---p of O---g: Introducing Old Friends with New Faces: A Poem: Being A Specimen of Ode, Elegy, Pastoral, Heroic, the Tender and the Terrific!! By P--- P--- [i.e. George Daniel] |
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 | The R---l First-Born |  |
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“The P--- he promis'd to be good,
And do as ev'ry R---t should,
Nor give vile Slander cause to say things;
He own'd with grief his conduct wildish,
And swore no longer to be childish,
But part with his Imperial Playthings.”
And do as ev'ry R---t should,
Nor give vile Slander cause to say things;
He own'd with grief his conduct wildish,
And swore no longer to be childish,
But part with his Imperial Playthings.”
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A POEM &c.
I.
HEARD ye the thunder's solemn roar?Saw ye the light'ning's vivid flash?
The angry billows rise,
As if earth, sea, and skies,
Should vanish and appear no more,
And Nature shake convuls'd, and feel a crash!
II.
Or saw ye, from the foaming deep,The spirit of the waters creep,
In form so terrible, God wot!
Or hoary Neptune, with his queen,
The buxom Amphytrite, I ween!
If, Reader, you such sights have seen,
Egad, you've seen what — I have not!—
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III.
O! happy day, expected long!What British Poet, smit with song,
His grateful incense would refuse?
O! bow your heads, Apollo's sons,
All ye, who, fearful of the duns,
In lofty garrets hide the Muse!
IV.
Here's good accommodation, let me tell ye,For ragged back and empty belly,
Here's nothing that the appetite can dupe;—
Fat cheer for epicure and glutton,
Huge shins of beef, and legs of mutton,
Fowls fricaseed, and buckets full of soup!
V.
Here hungry Bards may eat their fill,Nor fear to see the Landlord with his bill;
(That bill to Wits a mortal curse;)—
May drink of Port, Champagne, and Claret,
And, poor disciples of the garret,
Forget the evils of an empty purse!
VI.
The very thought transports my brain.—Down on your marrow-bones, ye tuneful train,
Ye ancient bards, and young beginners!
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Put decent clothing on your backs,
And gratify your appetites with dinners!
VII.
Down on your marrow-bones, ye Sons of Rhyme!Ye Ballad-Mongers, quit your high abodes!
O! tune your rusty harps to strains sublime,
Ye Manufacturers of Birth-Day Odes!
VIII.
The time is come when ev'ry mother's sonThat once was wont to starve, and rhyme in garrets,
Shall dread no more the vengeance of a dun,
But rattle through the streets in gilded chariots!
IX.
When Famine, (meagre fiend!) no more shall followThese various Dealers in Poetic Fibs,
And Flesh, (sworn foe to children of Apollo,)
Once more shall scrape acquaintance with their ribs!
X.
When something more than Heliconian streams(Than which I swear not precious wine is clearer)
Shall wake to rapture Fancy's glowing dreams,
Rich Bourdeaux, peradventure, or Madeira!
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XI.
When Worth shall find her sad condition alter,(O! haste the long-expected golden days!)
And villains meet their just reward—a halter,
And beef and pudding crown the Poet's lays!
XII.
When I, a poor forsaken Bard,No more shall mourn my fortune hard,
And each succeeding day grow leaner;
But, taking leave of ghastly famine,
Indulge the luxury of cramming,
For few have appetites much keener!
XIII.
Then, when I saddle my Pegassus,To take a journey to Parnassus,
To plan, perchance, some loyal poem;
“Good Lord! (the Sisters Nine will say,)—
“Is that sagacious Neddy Bray?
“He's grown so fat we scarcely know him!
XIV.
“And then his clothes,—so new and splendid,—“The Poet's case is vastly mended,—
“Sure Fortune frail can buy and sell beaux;
“But t'other day, or I'm a flirt,
“He was not worth a single shirt,—
“His coat besides was out at elbows!”
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XV.
These are the blessings that will follow,When P---rc---l, that dry-nurse of the State,
No more shall vex the children of Apollo,
And crown with high desert an empty pate.
XVI.
When Lawyers, foes to Honesty and Sense,No more in Britain's Isle shall shark it;
But, feeling much the scarcity of pence,
Carry their parchments to a better market!
XVII.
This is the day when Britain's pride,Shall throw his leading-strings aside,
And pass a solemn confirmation;
And, being now arriv'd at age,
From hence shall for himself engage
To do his duty to the nation.
XVIII.
No longer like a baby tossThe bold M---n as his ball,—
Make S---d---n his rocking-horse,—
Himself a laughing-stock for all.
XIX.
When he no more in many a frolic,Shall give to Decency the cholic,
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Butcher good-breeding at a jerk,
And crucify (O! parricide and Turk!)
Poor Virtue and Morality, like martyrs.
XX.
No more (for 'tis a thousand pities)Chaunt am'rous Bacchanalian ditties,
And utter vows so soft and tender;
Fall down upon his P---y knees,
And make himself a f**l to please
F---t, that old Witch of Endor.
XXI.
God help the hag! and give her grace,—Past are the wonders of her face,
(That face of Britain's P---th'undoing;)
May heav'n forgive her ev'ry crime,
And grant her to repent in time,
To save her guilty soul from ruin.
XXII.
I've wept, alas! but wept in vain,—And pour'd th'admonitory strain,—
No more regarded than a feather;—
O! that a British Bard divine
Should throw his precious pearls to swine,
Or ever preach to ears of leather.
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XXIII.
Yes, yes; my eyes did pour a riv'let,Such treatment I had cause to snivel at:
I once resolv'd to leave my home,
Cross o'er from Dover-Cliff to Calais,
Seek Buonaparte's Imperial Palace;
And, to defeat Britannia's malice,
Turn Poet-Laureat to the King of Rome!
XXIV.
Now O---g's grave B---h---p stands,His phiz sedate, and smooth his bands,
(A Bishop pure and undefil'd,
Who, Lord forgive them! many a varlet,
Has dar'd to couple with a harlot,)
To purify the R--- Child.
XXV.
For some great Poet sings, I'll take my oath,“Man is an Infant, but of larger growth.”
'Tis Doctor Young, I think, a sage divine,
Who often satiriz'd the quality,
Wrote rhymes on death and immortality,
And many other subjects truly fine.
XXVI.
I said the holy Bishop stood,Quite in a meditating mood,
With awe-inspiring wig of Gorgon;—
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And not a single breath was heard,
Save the loud pealings of the organ.
XXVII.
Dan P---l, with cap in hand,(That mighty Dry-Nurse of the Land,)
Stood trembling, for his conscience told him,
That now the glorious time was come,
When R---l---y, no longer dumb,
Would kick his ministerial b---m,—
But, thanks to God, he'd rais'd a plum,
And that delightful thought consol'd him.
XXVIII.
Next Sh***d*n, in doleful dumps,Like some old maiden with the mumps,
Heav'd many an inward groan portentous;
About his future fate uncertain,
And what might pass behind the curtain;
For, truly, 'twas an hour momentous.
XXIX.
Thrice did the Wit attempt to speak,Thrice did the colour leave his cheek;
(That colour Bardolph's self might boast of;)
He call'd on heav'n to grant him grace,
And rain down blessings in a place,
A place that he might make the most of.
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XXX.
Thus have I seen a maiden fair,With ev'ry beauty past compare,
When to her lover's arms she rushes;
Her cheeks, sweet emblems of the rose,
Her native modesty disclose,
Her blooming colour comes and goes,
And now she's pale, and now she blushes.
XXXI.
Thrice did he fill his glass with port,His drooping spirits to support,
All over-burthen'd with anxiety;
So oft did he the dose repeat,
That he could scarcely keep his feet,
Although a pattern of sobriety.
XXXII.
Next M---a, redoubtable Peer,Felt pangs, alas! not less severe,
And often wonder'd what the stir meant;
Such pangs as modern patriots feel,
When broke on expectation's wheel,
Poor souls, who angle for preferment.
XXXIII.
For well he knew (and what is worse?)The horrors of an empty purse,
His fortune needed much redressing;—
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Had swept his ready-cash away,
So left him not a doit to pay,
And hungry creditors grew pressing.
XXXIV.
He knew his gentle P---e indulgent,His honour, as his star, refulgent,
His generosity most splendid;
And hop'd that God would give him grace,
To fill some ministerial place,
As well as many other men did.—
XXXV.
Thus have I seen—I know not where—Some Stroller at a Country Fair—
Who was but for a simple Page meant;
By want and nakedness opprest,
Determine to perform his best,
And crave, for mercy, an Engagement.—
XXXVI.
Next stood M******, warlike wight,By some the God of Armies hight,
In Ball-room peerless, as in Fight,
Who never yet sustain'd a Beating;
A mortal Enemy to France,
Who knows full well the warlike Dance,
To halt, manœuvre, or advance,
But best—the method of retreating.
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XXXVII.
O! let the faithful Muse recordThe warlike Wonders of his Sword,
Be every gallant deed recounted;
When by the noble R---t's side,
To Wimbledon we saw him ride,
With pomp and military pride,
All on his prancing Charger mounted.
XXXVIII.
Mine be the Task, in lofty Ode,To sing how many miles he rode,
How oft the dunghill Bantams crow'd,
While wond'ring Jack Asses did bray on!
Huge flocks of Geese their voices rais'd,
While Sheep and Oxen, as they graz'd,
Beheld, astounded and amaz'd,
That warlike Scaramouch ********!!!!
XXXIX.
Thus have I often chanc'd to meet,(To make my simile complete,)
A Dromedary in the street,
With Jacko on his haunches playing;
A little animal, well known
For picking well another's bone,
And cracking nuts—but not his own,
And other roguish tricks displaying.
XL.
And now, advanc'd in gallant trim,With visage fierce and outstretch'd limb,
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By Jove sent hither to defend us!
From Germany the Hero came,
Nor travell'd faster than his Fame,
With Brain of Brimstone, Heart of Flame,
And Whiskers awfully tremendous!!!
XLI.
Who, spurning Neptune's briny flood,Has waded through a Sea of Blood,
What deeds of hardihood, O lud!
Few Mortals scarcely would believe e'm;—
Such deeds as Hector never knew,
But trust me not more strange than true,
(Oft pierc'd by bullets through and through,)
'Twould puzzle Ajax to achieve 'em.
XLII.
This Hector must a Rogue have been,He Andrew Mackay left—the Queen—
(Good Lord! Andromache I mean,)
That Queen his warlike soul's desire—
And, is it not a burning shame,
That this bold Chief—you'll guess his name—
Should thus desert, for empty fame,
The chaste adorable Sophia?
XLIII.
Had he nine lives, as eke Gramalkin,(Nor am I like a braggart talking,)
I say, that through the battle stalking,
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Around about, above, below,
He'd deal forth death at ev'ry blow,
And hurl destruction on the foe,
Than let him 'scape he'd eat him sooner.
XLIV.
Woe to the Wretch, whose Arm shall dareTo rise against this German Bear,
Disease, and infamy, and care,
Eternal anguish and despair,
Shall crush with ling'ring Blow!!!!
May clanking chains, and horrid screams,
Disturb the Catiff's midnight dreams,
May guilt and murder be his themes,
And blood pursue his steps in streams,
And everlasting Woe!!!---!!!---!!!
XLV.
Next stalk'd a Monk with shaven crown,And haughty unrelenting frown,
His back all gor'd from recent scourgings;
From Superstition's Land he came,
Was call'd a Catholic by name,
Staunch friend to Purgatory's flame,
And fierce inquisitorial purgings.
XLVI.
Of pardons oft he made a droll tale,And sold Indulgences by wholesale,
With Bulls to ev'ry sinful buyer;
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When souls were sent to kingdom come,
Defrauded Lucifer was dumb,
Before th' hand-writing of the Friar.
XLVII.
Peter and he good fortunes made,They carried on a roaring trade,
Sin sent them many a large remittance;
For ev'ry rogue, who long'd to see,
First paid the customary fee,
Before his soul could gain admittance.
XLVIII.
He left old maids of thirty-six,To mourn upon the banks of Styx,
And thought their cases much too harden'd;
But tender Virgins, somewhat less,
The Priest encourag'd to confess,
He smil'd, and soften'd his address,
For first he kiss'd 'em, then he pardon'd.—
XLIX.
He plann'd, with many a grin malicious,The worst a Catholic can wish us,
He thought the pious scheme delicious,
To roast poor Heretics alive;
To tear our sinful flesh with pincers,
And in ten thousand morsels mince us;
A pretty method to convince us!
And make Religion's Vot'ries thrive!
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L.
Then came a cringing flatt'ring crowd,Dull, ragged, ignorant, and loud,
Their supplicating tongues 'gan murmur;
So low they bow'd, the Bard supposes,
That some of their Imperial noses
Swept, like a besom, Terra Firma.
LI.
Ye Muses, St. Cecilia, Clio,Few Poets owe you more than I owe,
And none, I think, are half so grateful;
Whene'er I lack'd the means to dine,
To sate this appetite of mine,
Of cutlets ye have fill'd my plate full.
LII.
Once more assist your heav'n-born son,I'll kiss ye, Sisters, one by one,
And give ye something to be gay for;
Yes, yes, (O pardon my temerity,)
Your health, your beauty, and prosperity,
I shall be ever bound to pray for.
LIII.
Now from the Bishop's brazen throatBurst forth a loud discordant note,
A note to drown the voice of Stentor;
At ev'ry thund'ring word he spoke,
The ravens hoarse began to croak,
The bird of night her silence broke,
And Earth e'en trembled to the centre.
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LIV.
“Dear G---, I'm not on such a thing dumb,“In common with this mighty kingdom
“I strike with cheerfulness the lyre;
“And, though within my priestly breast,
“Pride never should be found a guest,
“For once the truth shall be confest,
“I feel myself six inches higher.
LV.
“But, as an enemy to vice,“Receive, I pray, my sage advice,
“Nor let thy p---y bosom scoff it;
“Be wise once more, thy sins forsaking,
“Give up this beastly love of raking;
“Attend to O---g, thy Prophet!
LVI.
“Some Bards of late (I blush to own)“Have brought in disrespect the ******!
“Rogues, who deserve Apollo's lashes,
“Have giv'n poor R—y sad wipes,
“Inflicted on our backs sharp stripes,
“And burnt our modesty to ashes.
LVII.
“God help these Poets' hard-bound brains,“God help their melancholy strains,
“Not Mother Dullness could go further;
“If butch'ring common sense in rhyme
“Be call'd by Jurymen a crime,
“Some Poets would be hang'd for murther.
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LVIII.
“But, spite of this, the Libels sell,“Though fill'd with stories false as Hell,
“Of all the wonders we've achiev'd;—
“Not only sell—though dull as lead—
“But then—odsboddikins!—are read,
“And,—dash my buttons! too, believ'd.
LIX.
“There's one sad Pamphleteer, nam'd Humphry,“From Bailiffs scarce can keep his bum free,
“A mortal enemy to sense;
“And then that mongrel Jeremiah,
“A most incorrigible liar,
“Who sells his soul for eighteen-pence.
LX.
“And then Apollo's brat, Young Peter,“That laughter-loving child of metre,
“So fond of lashing r—l folks;
“Whose brilliant rhymes might charm a Stoic,
“Keen, tender, past'ral, and heroic,
“The very prince of pointed jokes.
LXI.
“What rage possess'd this heart of mine,“I curs'd Dan Phœbus and the Nine,
“Parnassus, that poetic mountain;
“The Swans of Helicon which broke my peace,
“I boldly call'd a flock of geese,
“And libell'd the Castalian Fountain.
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LXII.
“Then let me earnestly beseech“You'll listen to the truths I teach,
“(I love to practise what I preach!)
“Let prudence be your sole director:
“For, what is virtue but a name,
“While Prudence hides the rogue from shame,
“And tells such stories of his fame,
“That Rumour swallows them like nectar.
LXIII.
“Yes, Prudence is a nymph I much admire;“She loves to aid the hypocrite and liar,
“And help poor rascals through the mire,
“Whom filth and infamy begrime;
“She's one of Guilt's most useful drudges,
“Her good advice she seldom grudges,
“Gives parsons meekness, gravity to judges,
“But frowns upon the man of rhyme.
LXIV.
“So, dearest G---, to sum up all in“Words suited to my holy calling,
“(Excuse the pious tear that's falling,)
“Take Solomon's advice, I prithee:
“The harlot shun, and learn to scorn her,
“Though paint and jewels should adorn her,
“Oh! go not nigh her house's corner,
“Lest she should hanker to go with thee.”—
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LXV.
And now the heav'nly-Mentor ceas'd,The list'ning crowd enjoy'd a feast,
To hear the maxims of the priest,
Which few so prettily could dish up;
And, though th'idea is somewhat dark,
They thought this new religious spark
Had been imparted by his Clerk!
The sage adviser of the Bishop.
LXVI.
The P--- he promis'd to be good,And do as ev'ry R---t should,
Nor give vile Slander cause to say things;
He own'd with grief his conduct wildish,
And swore no longer to be childish,
But part with his Imperial Playthings!
LXVII.
To lend no more his r--- learsTo needy sycophants, call'd Peers,
(Fond on their Country to denounce ills);
No more to favour papal sculls,
(With racks, indulgencies, and bulls,)
To sap and poison Britain's councils.
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XVIII.
Much more he promis'd, — golden views!Which to record and to peruse,
Would tire the Reader and the Muse;
(If neither should be tir'd already;
Heav'n guard his soul from slavish fears,
While passing through this vale of tears,
And crown him with a length of years,
And keep his resolutions steady.
LXIX.
Now from each town Add---s go forth,Brim full of duty, l---y, and so forth,
Fat Citizens howl'd eloquent orations:
Rare feastings crown'd each jovial hour,
Huge Gluttony assum'd his pow'r,
(Lord! how some people can devour!)
Wine flow'd in plentiful libations.
LXX.
'Tis meet that I should now recordThe splendor of the p---y board,
With ev'ry luscious dainty stor'd,
Mince-pies and magazines of jellies;
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The holy Bishop bless'd the meat;
In truth it was a glorious treat,
Well worthy of their noble bellies.
LXXI.
How turtle-soup old S---y suck'd in,What plates of goose His Highness tuck'd in,
The Muse might tell in lofty strains;
How, fond of comfortable picking,
M`--- seiz'd the tender chicken,
And O---g Calf's head and brains!
XXII.
How wine in sparkling bumpers flow'd,F---zg---d tun'd his lofty ode,
Mirth reign'd throughout the bright abode,
Nor Care, that pallid wretch, intruded:
How O---g, (no friend to punk,)
Alas! most piously got drunk;
How G---, with wine and love opprest,
Like Alexander, sunk to rest
Upon some yielding fair-one's breast,
And thus the glorious night concluded.
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XXIII.
Harp of Duck-Lane, farewel! whose warblings wildIn softest symphony were wont to please;—
Have erst the weary drayman's toil beguil'd,
While sitting o'er his beer and bread and cheese;—
No more thy strains shall float upon the breeze.
The Bard must now his plaintive lay retrench,
That e'en could make the lawyer drop his fees,
Could melt the rugged soul of cinder-wench,
And rouse the slumb'ring cobler from his lowly bench.
THE END.
| The R---l First-Born | |