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Eclogue on Margaret Nicholson 105

Twice every year with Beaufoy as we dine,
Pour'd to the brim eternal George be thine
Two foaming cups of his nectareous juice,
Which new to gods, no mortal vines produce.
To us shall Brudenell sing his choicest airs,
And capering Mulgrave ape the grace of bears ;
A grand thanksgiving pious York compose,
In all the proud parade of pulpit prose ;
For sure Omniscience will delight to hear,
Thou 'scapest a danger, that was never near.
While ductile Pitt thy whisper'd wish obeys,
While dupes believe whate'er the Doctor says,
While panting to be taxed, the famish'd poor
Grow to their chains, and only beg for more ;
While fortunate in ill, thy servants find
No snares too slight to catch the vulgar mind :
Fix'd as the doom, thy pow'r shall still remain,
And thou, wise King, as uncontrol'd shalt reign.


Thanks, Jenky^ thanks, for ever could 'st thou sing,
For ever could I sit, and hear thee praise the King.
Then take this book, which with a Patriot's pride,
Once to his sacred warrant I deny'd,
Fond though he was of reading all I wrote :
No gift can better suit thy tuneful throat.

io6 ' The Rolliad'


And thou this Scottish pipe, which Jamie's breath,
Inspir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death,
From lips unhallow'd I've preserved it long :
Take the just tribute of thy loyal song.



WHY does the loitering sun retard his wain,

When this glad hour demands a fiercer ray ?
Not so he pours his fire on Delhi's plain,
To hail the Lord of Asia's natal day.
There in mute pomp and cross-legg'd state,
The Raja Fonts Mahommed Shah await.
There Malabar,
There Bisnagar,
There Oude and proud Bahar, in joy confederate.


Curs'd be the clime, and curs'd the laws, that lay
Insulting bonds on George's sovereign sway !

Ode 107

Arise, my soul, on wings of fire,
To God's anointed, tune the lyre ;
Hail ! George, thou all-accomplish'd King !

Just type of him who rules on high !
Hail ! inexhausted, boundless spring

Of sacred truth and Holy Majesty !
Grand is thy form, 'bout five feet ten,
Thou well-built, worthiest, best of men !
Thy chest is stout, thy back is broad,
Thy Pages view thee, and are aw'd !
Lo ! how thy white eyes roll !
Thy whiter eye-brows stare!
Honest soul !
Thou'rt witty, as thou'rt fair.


North of the Drawing-room a closet stands :
The sacred nook, St. James's Park commands !
Here, in sequester'd state, great George receives
Memorials, treaties, and long lists of thieves !
Here all the force of sovereign thought is bent,
To fix Reviews, or change a government !
Heav'ns how each word with joy Caermarthen takes !
Gods ! how the lengthened chin of Sydney shakes !
Blessing and bless'd the sage associate see,
The proud triumphant league of incapacity.

With subtile smiles,

With innate wiles,

io8 ' The Rolliad*

How do thy tricks of state, great George, abound.
So in thy Hampton's mazy ground,
The path that wanders
In meanders,
Ever bending,
Never ending,

Winding runs the eternal round
Perplex'd, involved, each thought bewilder'd moves ;
In short, quick turns the gay confusion roves ;
Contending themes the embarrass'd listener baulk,
Lost in the labyrinths of the devious talk !


Now shall the levee's ease thy soul unbend,

Fatigu'd with Royalty's severer care !
Oh ! happy few ! whom brighter stars befriend,
Who catch the chat the witty whisper share !
Methinks I hear
In accents clear

Great Brunswick's voice still vibrate on my ear
' What ? what ? what ?
Scott ! Scott ! Scott !
Hot ! hot ! hot !
What ? what ? what ? '
Oh ! fancy quick ! oh ! judgment true !

Oh ! sacred oracle of regal taste !
So hasty, and so generous too !

Ode 109

Not one of all thy questions will an answer wait !

Vain, vain, oh Muse, thy feeble art,
To paint the beauties of that head and heart !

That heart where all the virtues join !

That head that hangs on many a sign !

Monarch of mighty Albion, check thy talk !
Behold the Squad approach, led on by Palk \
Smith, Barwell, Call, Vansittart, form the band
Lord of Britannia ! let them kiss thy hand !
For sniff \ rich odours scent the sphere !
'Tis Mrs. Hastings' self brings up the rear !
God ! how her diamonds flock
On each unpowdered lock !

On every membrane see a topaz clings !

Behold ! her joints are fewer than her rings !

Illustrious dame ! on either ear,

The Munny Begums' spoils appear !
Oh ! Pitt, with awe behold that precious throat,
Whose necklace teems with many a future vote !
Pregnant with Burgage gems each hand she rears ;
And lo ! depending questions gleam upon her ears !
Take her great George, and shake her by the hand ;
'Twill loose her jewels and enrich thy land.
But oh ! reserve one ring for an old stager ;
The ring of future marriage for her Major \

i io ' The Rolliad'


AROUND the tree, so fair, so green,
Erewhile, when summer shone serene,
Lo, where the leaves in many a ring
Before the wintry tempest wing,
Fly scattered o'er the dreary scene :

Such, NORTH, thy friends. Now cold and keen
Thy Winter blows ; no sheltering screen

They stretch, no graceful shade they fling
Around the tree.

Yet grant, just Fate, each wretch so mean,
Like Eden, pining in his spleen

For posts, for stars, for strings, may swing

On two stout posts in hempen string.
Few eyes would drop a tear, I ween,

Around the tree.



ON fair and equal terms to place

An union is thy care :
But trust me, Powis, in this case
The equal should not please his Grace

And PITT dislikes the fair.


(Two almost insurmountable difficulties lie before the
selector from Wolcot his fluent inequality ', which
constantly merges capital lines or stanzas in oceans not
exactly of dulness but of matter scarcely remarkable,
and his extreme dirtiness. He is, I should think, for
the same reasons, very little read nowadays ; but if
these selections send any one to him, the person sent, will
I think be rewarded, and I, the sender, shall not blush.}



ONCE on a time, a monarch, tir'd with whooping,
Whipping and spurring,
Happy in worrying
A poor, defenceless, harmless buck
(The horse and rider wet as muck),
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping,

Apple Dumplings 113

Enter'd, through curiosity, a cot,

Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.

The wrinkled, blear-ey'd, good, old granny,
In this same cot, illum'd by many a cranny,
Had fmish'd apple dumplings for her pot :
In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,
When, lo ! the monarch, in his usual way,
Like lightning spoke, ' What's this? what's this?
what ? what ? '

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,
His eyes with admiration did expand

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple :
* 'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed,' he cry'd :
What makes it, pray, so hard ? ' The dame reply'd,

Low curt'sying, 'Please your majesty, the apple.'

' Very astonishing, indeed ! strange thing ! '
(Turning the dumpling round, rejoin'd the king),
' 'Tis most extraordinary then, all this is
It beats Pinetti's conjuring all to pieces
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream
But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam ? '

' Sir, there's no seam,' quoth she ; ' I never knew
That folks did apple dumplings sew.'

ii 4 Peter Pindar

6 No ! ' cry'd the staring monarch with a grin,
' How, how the devil got the apple in ? '

On which the dame the curious scheme reveal'd
By which the apple lay so sly conceal'd,

Which made the Solomon of Britain start ;
Who to the Palace with full speed repair'd,
And queen and princesses so beauteous scar'd,

All with the wonders of the dumpling art !

There did he labour one whole week, to show
The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker \

And, lo ! so deep was majesty in dough,
The palace seem'd the lodging of a baker.


Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took
A very pretty memorandum-book,
With gilded leaves of asses' skin so white,
And in it legibly began to write

Mr. Whitbread' s Brewkouse 115


A charming place beneath the grates,
For roasting chesnuts or potates.


Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer

Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.


Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell?
Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well ?


To try it soon on our small beer
Twill save us sev'ral pounds a year.

Mem. To remember to forget to ask
Old Whitbread to my house one day-


Not to forget to take of beer the cask,
The brewer offer'd me, away.

n6 Peter Pindar

Now having pencil'd his remarks so shrewd ;

Sharp as the point, indeed, of a new pin ;
His majesty his watch most sagely view'd,

And then put up his asses' skin.

To Whitbread now deign'd majesty to say,
'Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay?'
' Yes, please your majesty,' in humble notes,
The brewer answer'd ' also, sir, of oats :
Another thing my horses too maintains
And that, an't please your majesty, are grains.'

1 Grains, grains,' said majesty, ' to fill their crops ?
Grains, grains that comes from hops yes, hops,

hops, hops.'
Here was the king, like hounds sometimes at fault

'Sire,' cry'd the humble brewer, 'give me leave

Your sacred majesty to undeceive :
Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt.'

' True,' said the cautious monarch, with a smile :
From malt, malt, malt I meant malt all the while.'
' Yes,' with the sweetest bow, rejoin'd the brewer,
'An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure.'
' Yes,' answer'd majesty, with quick reply,
< I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I.'

Liberty's Last Squeak 117

Now this was wise in Whitbread here we find

A very pretty knowledge of mankind :

As monarchs never must be in the wrong,

'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue,

To tell a little fib or some such thing,

To save the sinking credit of a king.

Some brewers, in the rage of information,
Proud to instruct the ruler of a nation,

Had on the folly dwelt, to seem damn'd clever !
Now, what had been the consequence ? Too plain !
The man had cut his consequence in twain ;

The king had hated the wise fool for ever !


FAREWEL, O my pen and my tongue !

To part with such friends I am loath ;
But Pitt, in majorities strong,

Voweth horrible vengeance on both.

No more on a king or a queen,

Apple-dumpling, and smuggling so sweet ;
Like their stomachs your wit shall be keen,

Hogs, hay, and fat bullocks, and wheat.

No more upon smugglers at court,

Mother Schwellenberg, bulses, and shawls ;

n8 Peter Pindar

Nor at levees and drawing-rooms sport.
Where man the poor sycophant crawls.

The meanness no more of high folk
In the rope of your satire shall swing :

For, behold, there is death in the joke
That squinteth at queen or at king.

Thus untax'd by your satire, my friends,
Courts smile at th' intended decree ;

Thus the reign of poor ridicule ends,
And follies, like shawls, will go free.

Yes Folly will prattle and grin

With her scourges Oppression will rise,

Since satire's a damnable sin,

And a sin to be virtuous and wise.

But wherefore not laugh at a ?

And wherefore not laugh at a ?
A laugh is a laudable thing,

When people are silly and mean.

When we paid civil list without strife,

When we paid the old quack for his cure,

When we pray'd at Peg Nicholson's knife,
The k laughed at us, to be sure.

Liberty's Last Squeak 119

Ev'n the minions of courts will escape ;

Dundas, Pitt, and Jenky, and Rose,
Yes, Satire gets into a scrape,

If she takes the four R s by the nose.

No more must ye laugh at an ass ;

No more run on topers a rig,
Since Pitt gets as drunk as Dundas,

And Dundas gets as drunk as a pig.

A laugh at a delegate hurts ;

Yes, 'twere dangerous to hazard your sneers ;
And mock the sweet mercy of courts,

That returned him his forfeited ears.

Now farewel to fair Buckingham-house,
To Windsor, and Richmond, and Kew ;

Farewel to the tale of the L !

Mother Red-cap, and Monarchs, adieu !

Like ferrets, since all must be muzzled,
(And muzzled indeed we shall be !)

Say Pitt (for I'm grievously puzzled),
May we venture a horse-laugh at thee?'

Peter Pindar


WHEN Pitt was out of office push'd,
What horror smote the levee mob ?

Mad into street of Downing rush'd
His minions, always ready for a job :

A most obsequious stud of hacks,

Who bore him on their humble backs
Through dirty lanes, through thick and thin ;

No matter what the object, no ;

When Pitt commands it must be so ;
Whether to clothe the naked realm, or skin.

Muse, would it be too harsh to say,

The tumult on that kick-out day
Was mob-like at a house on fire ;

Where friends, amid the conflagration,

With a kind thief-acceleration,
Whip off the goods they guarded by desire ?

Unfeeling as a stone, or harder,

In rush'd Lord G to the larder,

Caught up a goose for self and wife ;
In ran Dundas with hungry paunch,
Snatch'd up a turbot and a haunch :

Sixth Ode to Ins and Outs 121

In bounc'd Charles Long, and, with his butcher's


(For in the plunder he must also join),
And cut off slices from a fat sirloin.

In scamper'd Windham ' Where's my share ?

I must be partner in the spoils ' :
Then up he caught an old jack hare,

A proper present for his toils :

( I must have something/ Canning cries,

And fastens on some rich mince-pies,
As dext'rous as the rest to rifle :

Ecod ! and he must something do

For mother and for sisters too,
So steals some syllabubs and trifle.

But where was Justice all the while,

That things were going off in style ?
Poor gentlewoman ! she was gagg'd and bound ;

Her even scales, alas ! abhorr'd,

In pieces broken with her sword ;
Nor were the fasces to be found.

Such were the guardians of the state,
Just like a shoal of sharks who swam in,

With maws as wide as the park gate,
To save (by eating us) from famine \

122 Peter Pindar


IN this world's wild, uncertain chase,

What strange events at times take place !
Some bright with joy, some black with sorrow \

Omnium est rerum vicissitudo \

To-day what wonders / and you do,
That happen not again to-morrow \

Hawkesb'ry, and Windham, Canning, Long,
Were under-strappers to Will Pitt

Forerunners, oft they gave their tongue
Before the great man pour'd his wit.

Thus Paul's four small clock -quarters ('prentice

Instruct their mighty master when to sound :

Paul solemn listens to the tinkling noise,
Then breaks in thunder to the world around !

But herald under-strappers now no more,
Pitt out of office, the broad farce is o'er ;
Flung from his pedestal amid the rabble,
Deep-thundering Pitt is poor old Goody Gabble.

A Moral Conclusion 123

Ah me ! sic transit gloria mundi
Such things will be till moon and sun die,

And earth our ashes, our pale embers cover :
And really, when we sum up #//,
What's life? A blast a little squall.

Death's calm must come at last, and all is over
All in our tombs in peace not one
To read ' Hie jacet' on the stone \


(I cannot help it if these immortal things are hack-
neyed; they must reappear?)



' NEEDY Knife-grinder ! whither are you going ?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order
Bleak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole in't,

So have your breeches !

6 Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
-road, what hard work 'tis crying all day " Knives and

Scissors to grind O ! "

The Friend of Humanity 125

1 Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind

knives ?

Did some rich man tyrannically use you ?
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish ?
Or the attorney ?

1 Was it the squire, for killing of his game ? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit ?

'(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom

Paine ?)

Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story.'


1 Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scuffle.

1 Constables came up for to take me into
Custody ; they took me before the justice ;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
Stocks for a vagrant.

i26 The Anti- Jacobin'

' I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
with politics, sir.'


* / give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damn'd first
Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to ven-
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast ! '

[Kicks the Knife-grinder , overturns his wheel^ and exit
in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and uni-
versal philanthropy. ]



Tune, ' O'er the vine-cover'd hills and gay regions of France. '


FROM the blood bedew'd valleys and mountains of

See the Genius of Gallic invasion advance !

La Sainte Guillotine 127

Old ocean shall waft her, unruffled by storm,

While our shores are all lined with the Friends of


Confiscation and Murder attend in her train,
With meek-eyed Sedition, the daughter of Paine ;
While her sportive Poissardes with light footsteps are

To dance in a ring round the gay Guillotine.

To London, ' the rich, the defenceless,' she comes
f Hark ! my boys, to the sound of the Jacobin drums !
See Corruption, Prescription, and Privilege fly,
Pierced through by the glance of her blood-darting


While patriots, from prison and prejudice freed,
In soft accents shall lisp the Republican Creed,
And with tricolour' d fillets, and cravats of green,
Shall crowd round the altar of Sainte Guillotine. '


See the level of Freedom sweeps over the land
The vile Aristocracy's doom is at hand !
Not a seat shall be left in a House that we know,
But for Earl Buonaparte and Baron Moreau.

128 ' The Anti- Jacobin '

But the rights of the Commons shall still be respected,
Buonaparte himself shall approve the elected
And the Speaker shall march with majestical mien,
And make his three bows to the grave Guillotine.


Two heads, says the proverb, are better than one,

But the Jacobin choice is for Five Heads or none.

By Directories only can Liberty thrive ;

Then down with the ONE, Boys ! and up with the
FIVE ! ,

How our bishops and judges will stare with amaze-

When their heads are thrust out at the National Case-
ment \

When the National Razor has shaved them quite

What a handsome oblation to Sainte Guillotine \



COME, little Drummer Boy, lay down your knapsack

here :
I am the Soldier's Friend here are some books for

Nice clever books by Tom Paine, the philanthropist.

Acme and Septimius 129

Here's half-a-crown for you here are some handbills


Go to the Barracks, and give all the Soldiers some.
Tell them the Sailors are all in a Mutiny.

[Exit Drummer Boy, with Handbills and Haif-
a-crown. Manet Soldier's Friend.

Liberty's friends thus all learn to amalgamate,
Freedom's volcanic explosion prepares itself,
Despots shall bow to the Fasces of Liberty,
Reason, philosophy, 'fiddledum diddledum,'
Peace and Fraternity, ' higgledy, piggledy,'
Higgledy, piggledy, 'fiddledum diddledum.'

Et catera, et ccztera, et catera.




Fox, with Tooke to grace his side,
Thus address'd his blooming bride
4 Sweet ! should I e'er, in power or place,
Another Citizen embrace ;

130 ' The Anti- Jacobin '

Should e'er my eyes delight to look

On ought alive, save John Home Tooke,

Doom me to ridicule and ruin,

In the coarse hug of Indian Bruin ! '

He spoke ; and to the left and right,
N rf Ik hiccupp'd with delight.

Tooke, his bald head gently moving,
On the sweet Patriot's drunken eyes,
His wine-empurpled lips applies,

And thus returns in accents loving :

* So, my dear Charley, may success

At length my ardent wishes bless,

And lead through Discord's low'ring storm,

To one grand RADICAL REFORM !

As from this hour I love thee more

Than e'er I hated thee before!'

He spoke, and to the left and right,
N rf Ik hiccupp'd with delight.

With this good omen they proceed ;
Fond toasts their mutual passion feed ;
In Fox's breast Home Tooke prevails
Before rich Ireland and South Wales \
And Fox (un-read each other book),

Lines 131

Is Law and Gospel to Home Tooke.

When were such kindred souls united !
Or wedded pair so much delighted ?



THE Grecian Orator of old,
With scorn rejected Philip's laws,

Indignant spurn'd at foreign gold,
And triumphed in his country's cause.


A foe to every wild extreme,
'Mid civil storms, the Roman Sage

Repress'd Ambition's frantic scheme,
And check'd the madding people's rage.


Their country's peace, and wealth, and fame,
With patriot zeal their labours sought,

132 ' The Anti- Jacobin '

And Rome's or Athens' honour'd name
Inspired and govern'd every thought.


Who now in this presumptuous hour,
Aspires to share the Athenian's praise ?

The advocate of foreign power,
The ^Eschines of later days.

What chosen name to Tully's join'd,
Is thus announced to distant climes ?

Behold, to lasting shame consign'd,
The Catiline of modern times !



WHETHER some great, supreme o'er-ruling Power
Stretch'd forth its arm at nature's natal hour,
Composed this mighty whole with plastic skill,
Wielding the jarring elements at will ?
Or whether sprung from Chaos' mingling storm,
The mass of matter started into form ?

The Progress of Man 133

Or Chance o'er earth's green lap spontaneous fling
The fruits of autumn and the flowers of spring ?
Whether material substance unrefined,
Owns the strong impulse of instinctive mind,
Which to one centre points diverging lines,
Confounds, refracts, invig'rates, and combines ;
Whether the joys of earth, the hopes of heaven,
By Man to God, or God to Man were given ?
If virtue leads to bliss, or vice to woe ? ^

Who rules above, or who reside below ? )>

Vain questions all shall Man presume to know ? J
On all these points, and points obscure as these,
Think they who will, and think whate'er they please !

Let us a plainer, steadier theme pursue
Mark the grim savage scoop his light canoe ;
Mark the dark rook on pendent branches hung,
With anxious fondness feed her cawing young.
Mark the fell leopard through the desert prowl,
Fish prey on fish, and fowl regale on fowl ;
How Lybian tigers' chawdrons love assails,
And warms, midst seas of ice, the melting whales ;
Cools the crimpt cod, fierce pangs to perch imparts,
Shrinks shrivell'd shrimps, but opens oysters' hearts;
Then say, how all these things together tend
To one great truth, prime object, and good end ?

First to each living thing, whate'er its kind,
Some lot, some part, some station is assign'd.

134 ' The Anti- Jacobin '

The feather'd race with pinions skim the air
Not so the mackerel, and still less the bear :
This roams the wood> carniv'rous, for his prey ;
That with soft roe, pursues his watery way :
This slain by hunters yields his shaggy hide ;
caught by fishers, is on Sundays cried.

But each contented with his humble sphere,
Moves unambitious through the circling year ;
Nor e'er forgets the fortune of his race,
Nor pines to quit, or strives to change his place.
Ah ! who has seen the mailed lobster rise,
Clap her broad wings, and soaring claim the skies ?
When did the owl, descending from her bow'r,
Crop, 'midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flow'r ;
Or the young heifer plunge, with pliant limb,
In the salt wave, and fish-like strive to swim ?

The same with plants potatoes 'tatoes breed, ^|
Uncostly cabbage springs from cabbage seed ;
Lettuce to lettuce, leeks to leeks succeed ;
Nor e'er did cooling cucumbers presume
To flow'r like myrtle, or like violets bloom.

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