 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
172
THE ALARMISTS
PART OF A LETTER TO A FRIEND
The Alarmists are all in a great consternation
Concerning old England's most sad situation;
Their woful lamentings they daily increase
And rail at this “shameful, iniquitous, Peace”;
In Clubs and in parties they often assemble
To drink, to harangue, to lament and to tremble.
Concerning old England's most sad situation;
Their woful lamentings they daily increase
And rail at this “shameful, iniquitous, Peace”;
In Clubs and in parties they often assemble
To drink, to harangue, to lament and to tremble.
Now let us suppose, on some mighty affair
A Club had convened, it is no matter where,
And consider what now I'm about to relate
A faithful report of their learned debate.
A Club had convened, it is no matter where,
And consider what now I'm about to relate
A faithful report of their learned debate.
The discussion to open in language most clear
With a smirk, and a grin, rose a fam'd Auctioneer:
“Hem, hem, Mr. Chairman, I fear we have got
In this new-fangled Peace a most villainous lot;
Tho' so much 'tis approv'd both in country and town,
I fear that the Nation will soon be knock'd down;
No concern for our wrongs are the Ministry showing,
And we all are a going! a going! a going!!!”
With a smirk, and a grin, rose a fam'd Auctioneer:
“Hem, hem, Mr. Chairman, I fear we have got
In this new-fangled Peace a most villainous lot;
Tho' so much 'tis approv'd both in country and town,
I fear that the Nation will soon be knock'd down;
No concern for our wrongs are the Ministry showing,
And we all are a going! a going! a going!!!”
Next rose a stout Cobler with visage demure:
“This Peace, sir, d'ye see me, I cannot endure.
The wax of my heart melts away at the story;
I fear we are come to the end of our glory.
Our national goodness is tapp'd on the heel,
And we soon, very soon shall French pegging awls feel.
The Leather of England will soon be in holes,
And we cannot last long, poor unfortunate soles.
“This Peace, sir, d'ye see me, I cannot endure.
The wax of my heart melts away at the story;
I fear we are come to the end of our glory.
173
And we soon, very soon shall French pegging awls feel.
The Leather of England will soon be in holes,
And we cannot last long, poor unfortunate soles.
Thus ended the polish'd and erudite railer,
And after him rose a magnanimous Tailor:
The ninth part of a man, from his dignified station,
Amaz'd the whole club, with this flaming oration:
“Whatever the friends of this Peace may declare,
They have worn all their arguments perfectly bare;
With ready cut promises sweeter than honey
They have nipp'd off our honor and cabbaged our money;
The Peace they've patched up, is they say worth a treasure;
But I say they have taken a very bad measure.
The shreds of their power, I speak it with wrath,
Have reduc'd to a shred all the kingdom's best cloth.
Altho' they're as sharp as a needle for wit,
I don't value their speeches the crack of a nit.
I'm quite in a pucker, my choler is great,
Since the threads of our fortune are clipp'd off by fate.”
And after him rose a magnanimous Tailor:
The ninth part of a man, from his dignified station,
Amaz'd the whole club, with this flaming oration:
“Whatever the friends of this Peace may declare,
They have worn all their arguments perfectly bare;
With ready cut promises sweeter than honey
They have nipp'd off our honor and cabbaged our money;
The Peace they've patched up, is they say worth a treasure;
But I say they have taken a very bad measure.
The shreds of their power, I speak it with wrath,
Have reduc'd to a shred all the kingdom's best cloth.
Altho' they're as sharp as a needle for wit,
I don't value their speeches the crack of a nit.
I'm quite in a pucker, my choler is great,
Since the threads of our fortune are clipp'd off by fate.”
“I could duck them all well,” said a Poulterer so spruce,
“Surely treatment so foul, none would bear but a goose!”
An Oilman rose next: “Sir, I say on my verity
From the flask is ooz'd out all the oil of prosperity.
Tho' I love not with power to quarrel and stickle
I think we are all in a terrible pickle.”
“Surely treatment so foul, none would bear but a goose!”
174
From the flask is ooz'd out all the oil of prosperity.
Tho' I love not with power to quarrel and stickle
I think we are all in a terrible pickle.”
“Zounds!” bawl'd a stout Cook, “In a pickle indeed!
In a pickle from which we shall never be freed!
Here's a very fine mess; smoke my wig, Mr. Chairman,
That there Bony part is a devilish rare man!
We must soon go to pot, spite of all we can do;
When I think of his sauce, I am quite in a stew;
This is no time to trifle; I quake like a jelly;
Mounseer will soon stow our roast beef in his belly.
Our sop of a Premier has suck'd up our treasures,
I'm not such a cake as to puff off his measures;
The sweets of his Peace we poor Devils shall taste
When Frenchmen come over our country to baste.
John Bull once was fat, once he lived upon clover,
But he's now overdone and completely done over;
He's roasted, he's dish'd—Zounds! I broil with vexation!
Not one drop of gravy is left in the Nation.
A very fine Peace have our Ministers plann'd,
We must starve whilst they feed on the fat of the land!
Of the good they have done they may constantly speak,
But, curse me, 'tis nothing but bubble and squeak!”
“Time, my friends,” said the Chairman, “forbids me to push on
To any great length, this important discussion.
In a fortnight's time hence to this point we'll return,
But at present I think 'twill be best to adjourn.
'Tis prov'd that our Ministers plans are pursuing
Which only can end in confusion and ruin;
That in all their vile minds no good principle rules;
That one half are knaves and the other half fools;
That for England's misfortunes they care not a feather—
So, my friends, let us all be unhappy together!”
In a pickle from which we shall never be freed!
Here's a very fine mess; smoke my wig, Mr. Chairman,
That there Bony part is a devilish rare man!
We must soon go to pot, spite of all we can do;
When I think of his sauce, I am quite in a stew;
This is no time to trifle; I quake like a jelly;
Mounseer will soon stow our roast beef in his belly.
Our sop of a Premier has suck'd up our treasures,
I'm not such a cake as to puff off his measures;
The sweets of his Peace we poor Devils shall taste
When Frenchmen come over our country to baste.
John Bull once was fat, once he lived upon clover,
But he's now overdone and completely done over;
He's roasted, he's dish'd—Zounds! I broil with vexation!
Not one drop of gravy is left in the Nation.
A very fine Peace have our Ministers plann'd,
We must starve whilst they feed on the fat of the land!
Of the good they have done they may constantly speak,
But, curse me, 'tis nothing but bubble and squeak!”
175
To any great length, this important discussion.
In a fortnight's time hence to this point we'll return,
But at present I think 'twill be best to adjourn.
'Tis prov'd that our Ministers plans are pursuing
Which only can end in confusion and ruin;
That in all their vile minds no good principle rules;
That one half are knaves and the other half fools;
That for England's misfortunes they care not a feather—
So, my friends, let us all be unhappy together!”
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |