Birch for Peter Pindar, Esq: A burlesque poem. By Pindaromastix.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.

BIRCH FOR PETER PINDAR, ESQ. &c.

AH well-a-day!

Ah well-a-day!

What shall I say?

What shall I say?

Ah! in what dictionary shall I find

Meet words to vent the grief that labours in my mind?

O Muse! a hapless brother Bard deplore,

Who's fallen, fallen, fall'n to rise no more.

Mourn all ye friends of Peter and of fun,

Mourn very hard indeed—and when ye've done,

Come listen to my lay,

And mind what I've to say.

Now you must know this cock of rhyme

Was hatch'd in some unlucky time.

Some planet of malignant pow'r

Presided o'er his natal hour.

I see, I see

The Fates decree,

Or do or say whate'er we can

To serve this poor unhappy man,

Some dire disaster must attend,

And so he'll come to no good end.

You know,[*] at Court I got him plac'd,

But now he's ousted and disgrac'd.

Did I not give him good advice,

And that not once, but twice or thrice?

But all advice, I fear, is vain,

The rogue has been at his old tricks again.

Nay, what is worse than all that's past,

He now is held in durance fast;

As you will hear, if you'll attend

The following story to its end.

Scarce had he warm'd himself at Court

Before he fell to wicked sport.

Well fed and cloth'd, he there begun

To play all sorts of wanton fun.

Complaints were brought from ev'ry quarter—

—One while he'd steal a maid of honour's garter,

And by such flatt'ring token prove

How high he stood in maiden's love.

Another while, perdue as dead

He'd couch 'neath maid of honour's bed,

As if intent on nightly wickedness;

But now I'm well assur'd 'twas nothing less.

Bromfield and Hawkins both declare

That he could do no mischief there,

(I mean in maid of honour's bed)

For all his mischief's in his head.

In ambush thus he only lay

To hear what they in sleep would say,

And then forsooth the wag would run

And tell their secrets all in fun.

On this the maidens all combin'd,

And in petition formal join'd

With loud complaints against our Bard,

Declaring it was very hard

That he their private chambers should invade,

And hear what they in midnight dreaming said;

Such test was far too much for any mortal maid.

Of waking maids, all own, there are great numbers;

But ah! what earthly maid can answer for her slumbers?

But what they most of all things fear'd,

Was, that he'd publish all he heard.

They knew that Peter had a tattling tongue,

Which blabb'd out all, but chief if aught was wrong.

Should he in nightly ambuscade discover

That they, in sleeping fancy only, had a lover,

Of courtly maids, this sland'rous tale

In Peter Pindar's Ode would stand,

And fly forthwith in Palmer's mail

To all the gossips in the land.

In short—if he must be indulg'd in such-like sport,

The sisters, one and all, resolv'd to quit the Court.

The virtuous maidens rueful plaints were heard,

And full of reason and of truth appear'd.

Peter was question'd on these heads

Of maidens garters and their beds,

Was by his master reprimanded,

And to his proper post remanded,

With charge, no more to be so rude

As thus indecently t' intrude,

To gratify a curious whim;

For maids or not, what was't to him?

But not the virtuous maids alone,

His fellow-servants ev'ry one

Complain'd of saucy Peter,

His gibing and his metre.

But chief of all the Laureat-Bard

With reason good averr'd, 'twas hard

That he could never make a Birth-day Song

To 'scape the witty malice of his tongue.

That when he did his very best,

Of all his words, he'd make a jest.

Oft as he form'd a sober rhyme,

Or strove to soar in verse sublime,

The rogue was sure to mock him with another,

And now would call him Tom, and now would call him Brother.

Long had he borne his arch grimace,

But now grew weary of his place.

Rather than be the butt of monkey Peter,

He'd quit the trade, and deal no more in metre.

To fly from such intol'rable attack,

He'd forfeit both his bays, and marks, and sack.

Of chaplains all he'd make a jest,

For Peter never lov'd a priest.

He always was a very wicked boy,

And never would the Sabbath-day employ

In conning over[*] Bible-phrase sublime;

His Sabbaths all were giv'n to fiddling and to rhyme.

His mother told him 'twas a shameful thing

To make such wicked songs about his K—g.

Ah! son, she'd say, 'twill bring thee to the gallows,

As sure as spending Sabbath-day in ale-house.

And as he added year to year,

He more and more alarm'd her fear,

Lest he should take to wicked ways,

And in a halter end his days.—

—But after this digression short,

Let's now resume our thread at Court,

And Peter's farther pranks report.

Bed-chamber lord or page in waiting

Was sure to bear his waggish baiting.

Whoever came to Court

Was Peter's butt and sport.

At ev'ry human ailing,

At ev'ry human failing,

Whether halt, or blind, or lame,

He'd loll his tongue, and make his game.

With hasty speech, and utt'rance quick,

He'd play you ev'ry monkey trick.

'Tis said his r—l master didn't escape

The mimic wagg'ry of this rhyming ape.

At length the courtiers, one and all,

Determin'd to effect his fall.

And yet the question may admit of doubt,

Wheth'r all their efforts could have got him out;

So much his master lov'd him,

Till he a traitor prov'd him.

Now, gentle reader, let us straight repair

To council-hall, and learn what passes there.

And merry people all, throughout the nation,

Pray listen to this droll examination.

P—y C—l met.

Lord Testy thus addresses the Board.

My Lords, you're summon'd here

A horrid tale to hear,

Of Peter Pindar's dark design

(Which calls for punishment condign)

To kill the K—g, enslave the nation,

And bring us all to desolation.

Battalions thick in armour stood,

Prepar'd t' embark and shed our blood,

To force our wives, our fortunes to devour,

And bring in Popish faith and arbitrary pow'r.

I wish this dev'lish imp of rhyme

Could be hang'd now—'twould save our tin

But this is not our English way,

For ev'ry rogue must have fair play.

In our proceedings let there be no flaw;

The culprit must be hang'd by reg'lar course of law.

A Frenchman appears before the C—l to inform against Peter Pindar.

Ld. T—y.

Where is this Frenchman? If he's in the way,

We now will hear what he has got to say.

But French I do not understand;

Is no interpreter at hand?

Interpreter.

O, oui, Milor, and 'tis pour dat I'm here.

Ld. T—y.

O, are you so?—a fine interpreter!

Why man, you nought but French can splutter;

I'm sure you can't two words of English utter.

Interp.

O, my good Lor, you please, pardonnez moi;

Der is long time I am in dis emploi,

Pour all my contremen dat come from France,

Pour civilize your peuple, and for teach de dance.

Ld. T—y, aside.

Confound your French impertinence!

But for a moment—truce with impudence.

Well; first of all, what's this man's name, d'ye say?

Interp.

Milor, son nom, his name, be[*]Parler Vrai.

Ld. T—y.

Now, your name, Monsieur, if you please?

Interp.

[*] Interpreteur fidele, bien a votre service.

Ld. T—y.

Who is this Parler Vrai, Monsieur?

Interp.

Milor, attendez, you shall hear.

Milor, he have de grand bonheur

To be un gentilhomme d'honeur.

Ld. T—y.

Indeed? Then, if you please, let's hear

What bus'ness brought his honour here.

Interp.

Milor, to Londres he have come pour his plaisir,

And 'tis pour dat, Milor, he is in England here.

Ld. T—y.

And pray what might he do in his own nation?

Had he no sort of trade or occupation?

Interp.

Milor, when he do live in his own place,

He acammode de head, and shave de face.

Ld. T—y.

I thought as much:—you know him?—

—Interp.

O que oui.

Monsieur be my good friend, mon bon ami.

Ld. T—y.

O, is he so?—Then let this Parler Vrai

Speak out, and tell us what he has to say.

Interp. to P. V.

A present parlez haut & parlez tout.

Ld. T—y.

What's that?—

—Interp.

Milor, I tell him to speak out.

Parler Vrai deposes.

Quand j'étois à la cour de France

Je faisois très-grande connoissance.

Et j'avois aussi le bonheur

De travailler chez un friseur,

Un homme d'esprit & de bon Sens

Qui coiffoit[*] l'Archevêque de Sens.

Il connut aussi bien son sécretaire

Qui lui racontoit une etrange affaire,

D'un certain drole ici en grand emploi,

Même accoucheur, il avoit dit, a Roi.

Ld. T—y interrupting.

Hark ye, Monsieur Interpreter!

Pray check his honour's glib career,

Or else of all this length'ning tale

We ne'er shall make or head or tail.

Before his honour further goes,

You'll please t' explain in verse or prose,

To satisfy each English head

Of what he has already said.

As soon as this is clearly done,

You'll bid his honour then go on;

But please to stop him now and then,

(I leave to your discretion, when)

And give the English sense, as well as you are able,

Or else 'twill be confusion all, like tow'r of Babel.

Interp.

Milor, I vil de English meaning tell,

And you shall say, I speak your language well.

Milor, when at de court of France

He say he make grand acquaintance,

And dat he have de happiness

To work vid one friseur who dress

De peruque, and who shave de face

Of Monseigneur de Sens his grace;

Which courtier have good sense to tell

When he do hear some ting nouvelle.

And dat Milor of Sens his secretaire

Did one day tell him of one strange affaire,

Of some droll fellow in your nation

En grand emploi and occupation,

Who say dat he have de honneur

To be your K—g his accoucheur.

Ld. T—y interrupting.

Why, what the d—l's that, Monsieur?

Interp.

Patience, Milor, and you shall hear:

It is for make accouche your K—g,

When he want do one certain ting.

Dat be one drole affaire, ma foi,

To make accoucher un gros Roi,

Like when your wife, Milor, accouche for little boy.

Instant on this, burst forth such loud uproar

As ne'er was heard at C—l Board before;

Beards, wigs, and noses, wagged all,

And unextinguish'd laughter shook the hall.

Not more when merry Gods above

Surround the festal board of Jove;

While nectar and ambrosia crown the feast,

And Peter Pindar cracks his witty jest.

P. V. to Interp. aside.

Mais pourquoi fait-on tant d'eclat de rire?

Interp.

Mon ami, o'est la mode en Angleterre.

Ld. T—y.

Come, leave your prattling—if you don't go on

With this curs'd bus'ness, we shall ne'er have done.

Interp. to P. V.

De finir ce rapport, depechez vous,

Monsieur en grand peruque est faché contre nous.

Parler Vrai proceeds.

Je dis qu'un drole ici en grand emploi,

Même accoucheur, il avoit dit, a Roi,

Pindar son nom, son nom de Baptême Pierre,

Il avoit bien écrit, que le derrière

Du Roi ici il garde—la clef pour cela il tient—

Et que sans lui le Roi ne jamais feroit rien.

Interp.

Dat is, Milor, dis Peter Pindar

He write, dat he your K—g can hinder

From do one certain ting when he have mind,

Because he keep de key of his behind.

On this Lord T—y gave him such a look!

But not a nerve of dauntless Peter shook.

Parler Vrai continues.

Et que pour pension bonne de dix mille livres

Pour lui apprêter, comme il faut, des vivres,

Il sera prêt de fermer bien son Roi

En sorte qu'il ne fasse rien pour tout un moi,

Pendant ce temps lequel est bien critique

Pour servir à leurs plans de politique.

Interp.

Dat is, Milor, dis Peter Pindar mention

If dey vil give five hundred pound of pemsion,

Dat he may have roast-beef and wine,

(On which he dearly love to dine)

He vil not let your England K—g

Pour tirty day do dat same ting;

By dis to give some better chance

To serve de politique of France.

Ld. T—y.

Bravo! Interpreteur fidele,

Thou dost thy office very well.

Now let thy brother Parler Vrai

Declare what more he has to say.

Interp.

Milor, I know he have no more to tell.

Ld. T—y.

Then you'll withdraw—so far we go on well.

Ld. T—y, addressing P. Pindar.

So!—here are pretty doing, master Peter—

—Since first I heard of thee and thy d—n'd metre,

I've all along had some fore-boding thought

That stocks or pillory would be thy lot;

But hanging now, I see, and nothing less

Will serve thy turn:—Come then; thou'dst best confess.

Thou'lt save much cost by such a resolution,

And ease us of the plague of prosecution.

Peter, intrepidly.

Hold, hold, my Lord; not quite so fast!

If you are, I am not in haste.

I've some small skill in law as well as rhyme,

And mean t' avail myself of further time.

I'm not to be brow-beaten so

In ev'ry action that I do:

I know how far 'tis safe to go.

Produce your Frenchman—let him swear

To any given day or year,

I'll prove that at the very time

I was employ'd in making rhyme,

Or making up a pill,

Or bolus, which you will.

Next, let him swear to place—then I

Will swear and prove an alibi.

Think not I'm so abandon'd and forlorn,

I've ne'er an affidavit-friend to serve a turn,

If letters sign'd by me are brought to light,

I'll prove that I can neither read nor write,

And, spite of you and all your law,

I'll save my bacon by some flaw.

Ld. T—y.

Was ever impudence a match for this!

Quondam empiric! say'st thou, common Fame?

No, no, thou'rt wrong in thy hypothesis;

Old Rock himself was ne'er so void of shame.

Some quondam scrivener, I ween,

Of brazen front, and perjur'd tongue,

To lie and swear thro' thick and thin,

And make the rightful cause appear the wrong.

But, Peter, trust not to thy skill

In quirks and quibbles of the law;

I'll squeeze thee in attainder's bill;

Where's then thy bacon-saving flaw?

Peter.

Well; if I must be hang'd, I must;

All men must die, and come to dust.

Then what imports it, when or where,

Or soon or late, or here or there?

Reclin'd on couch, or propp'd in easy chair,

Or pendent high in ambient field of air?

No form of death can scare your dauntless bard;

I'll kiss my friend the hangman, and die hard.

Ld. T—y.

Well, Peter, justice shall be done thee,

Whatever judgment falls upon thee.

Meanwhile I'd have thee better spend thy time,

And leave off this bad trade of making rhyme.

Peter intrepid to the last.

No, that, my Lord, I surely will not do;

I'll make one more d—n'd ode for you.

Insult not o'er my fallen state,

Perhaps yourself, or soon or late,

May fall like me—it was the ca••

Of better men who held your place.

The losing gamesters by and by may win,

Ins may go out, and outs once more come in.

And oh!

If so,

Then your fell foe

Will work your woe.

Impeachments thick

Will follow quick,

And make you kick

Against the prick;

But F—x will stick

As close as tick,

Nor quit you till he sends you to old Nick.

Ld. T—y, aside.

Sure never impudence on this side Hell

This rascal Peter Pindar's did excel.

Addressing the C—l.

My Lords, this is a horrid, horrid thing,

A foul conspiracy against the K—g,

To stop the passage of his r—l life,

I do not say by poison or by knife,

But by a method still more deep and dark,

Such as would leave no indicating mark,

Nor aught of outward symptom that might lead

To trace the author of such shocking deed.

My Lords, in all my reading,

My Lords, in all my pleading,

A case in point I never knew,

The case is altogether new.

Search all King-killing cases,

The Jesuits were but asses,

Compar'd with this astrictive fellow Peter—

—D—n'd costive in his plot, however lax in metre!

My Lords, I freely own I'm no physician,

I cannot speak with Warwick-lane precision—

Nor Galen nor Hippocrates my book,

But old black-letter Littleton with Coke.

But lawyers, sure, may have as good pretence

As any other men to common sense.

Allow me this, and I can reason give

Why in such case no mortal man can live.

To shut such channel must be certain death,

Not more so, stopping up the vital breath.

How long such case might go, I will not say,

I cannot fix the limits to a day;

But to my reason it appears most plain

That half a month would kill the stoutest man.

And sure, you'll own, my Lords, in such-like ail

The K—g's prerogative can nought avail.

In cases of evacuation,

And ev'ry other operation

Pertaining to our common frame,

The r—l functions are the same

With those which Nature calls from you and me:

In this, my Lords, at least, I trust, we all agree.

Then from your own experience freely speak,

And say what man among you ever went a week.

This said, a gentle murm'ring sound

Of hear him! hear him! circled round,

Re-echoed by a large majority,

Tho' not unanimous the fav'ring cry.

The Scottish corps, in deepest wonder,

All sat amaz'd, as struck with thunder,

To hear Lord T—y talk at such a rate—

Then crowding all together tête à tête,

Their notes posterior they compar'd,

And all with one consent declar'd

Such argument was void of sense,

And counter to their own experience.

Some said the mon was mad—but all agreed

He'd got a glass o' whisky in his head.

At length Tweed-side on T—y fix'd his eye,

And holding forth his leg, up-rose to make reply

Ld. Tweed-side.

Hoot mon, ye talk just like a fule

I'll send ye cross the Tweed to schule,

And there ye'll see our bonny lads can gang

Without the like o' this the winter lang.

Wous! mon, were we to cast away our meat

Wi' ilka moon, we'd soon hae nought to cat.

Fra side o' Tweed to Johnny Groats,

Ye wadna find a peck o' oats.

But here's sic wastefu' wark as ne'er was seen!

Ye cram your weams fra morning until e'en,

And gin ye canna lat it out,

Ye're than au fou o' bile and gout.

Not sae wi' us—we gang a moon and mare,

And yet our weams are neither sick nor sare.

My Lords, I dinna speak from partiality,

Nor any cause, my Lords, of nationality.

This Peter Pundar, ye may see,

Is nought to me nae mare than ye.

My Lords, I trow, ye ken full •eel

I never countenanc'd the cheel,

Nor mean to do't for this ane thing,

The fallow does nae like his K—g,

Because he wadna buy his sang;

In that, I own, he's very wrang.

But as to this conspiracy,

I'll wager that it's au a lie.

I canna think that sic a deed

Could ever enter the loon's head.

But if it did, how could he do't?

My Lords, I canna mak that out.

Ye ken full weel, to Court he never gangs,

The kallon gets his bread by making sangs.

My Lords, his time's employ'd the leeve-lang day

To win baubees by lilting o' the lay.

As to your idle tales o' this and that,

Of accoucheur a Roi, and G— knows what,

My Lords, I wad believe as soon

[Ld. T—y giving Ld. Tweed-side a look of disapprobation.]

We're just now sitting i' the moon.

Hoot mon! don't luke at me sae surly,

And mak not au this hurly-burly

About a thing o' nought,

Till ye hae further sought.

Consider weel what ye're about,

Or else ye'll get us au turn'd out.

Troth mon, I did nae think ye sic a fule,

To bring us here to be the ridicule

Of folks o' ilka rank and station,

Bath high and low throughout the nation.

A ballad-maker stop up the K—g's weam!

O Lourd! O Lourd! we'll au be brought to shame.

My Lords, we munna shew our faces,

The folks will call us fules and asses.

And weel I wat some cheel will tak the hint,

And stick us au together in a print.

Yes, yes, my Lords, ye'll see your sels in etches,

Your Lawland lads are deev'lish quick at sketches.

Besides, that fallow Pundar ther ere lang

Will link us au into a bonny sang.

Troth, now I think on't, 'twad be better,

Before we rise, to tuck up Peter.

We soon could put him out o' th' way,

And stop the lilting o' his lay.

The loss o' sic a loon wad nae be much—

I've got a bit o' inkle i' my pouch;

If auld friend T—y will but gie the beck,

We'll mak a noose, and put it round his neck,

And sae e'en lat him swing,

But dinna tell the K—g;

If he should speer for Peter, we may say

The loon brak out o' jail, and ran away:

And now, my noble Lords, what say ye au?

Wha votes for Highland execution law?

We'd find some hole about the C—l House

Where he wad lig as still as ony mouse.

I see ye laugh, my Lords, and weel ye may,

I dinna mean to hang the lad to-day;

I only meant a fling at T—y there,

For bringing us like April ninnies here.

Gude faith! I'd hae him luke about,

And see how he can get us out

O' sic a scrape as this—for should the K—g

Surprise us in't, 'twad be a serious thing.

He'd turn us out to seek our bread,

Wi' auld friend T—y at our head.

For wha wad keep sic fules about him?

Sic c—l's only fit for Gotham.

My Lords, I fear, I've tedious been,

And by friend T—y's lukes and ein,

He's in a deev'lish angry mood I find;

I dinna care for that—I'll speak my mind.

In points o' law, I readily allow,

To him we au mun doff our hats and bow;

On this side Tweed, I mean—but in a case

O' costive weam he talks just like an ass.

I see he does nae ken what he's about,

If he wad let me, I could help him out;

But this he winna do—he'll hae his way,

And, troth, I fear he'll lead us au astray—

—I see this silly bus'ness mun gang on.

Weel, weel, among sae many fules I am but one.

Now let's suppose this Frenchman's tale a fact,

I canna deem't a treasonable act;

For what's a moon? that could nae kill a K—g.

Did I not tell you, 'twas a common thing

For my North-British countrymen to gang

Twa moons or three?—And yet we are as strang

As ye are here—as free fra ails, save now and then

A little bit o' yuking outwardly i' th' skin.

As to that babbling Frenchman's silly chat

About a pension, or the like o' that,

The tale appears to me an arrant fiction,

And fraught wi' nonsense and wi' contradiction.

If pension was the object o' his game,

Ye ken, my Lords, he might hae that at hame.

But pension'd slave he winna be,

Nor sell his Wulks-and-Liberty

For au that K—gs and Courts can gie.

He does nae like their strait-lac'd ways,

Their proclamations, and their Sabbath-days.

Kirk-ganging orders mak him sick;

He likes to wag his feedle-stick,

And thinks it is the better way

To chase the muckle Deel away,

By playing Bobbing Joan, and sic like airs,

Than singing psalms at kirk, and saying pray'rs.

Lord Sidewind.

Here, by your leave, my Lord,

Let me put in a word.

Permit me to object,

That tho' he did reject

A handsome proffer'd pension here,

Nathless the culprit might elsewhere

Make hearty zealous application,

Mov'd both by int'rest and by inclination.

What tho' a G—e has ever been his snarling,

Does this evince that Louis is n't his darling?

I apprehend this was the very matter

Which prompted Peter to become a traitor;

For Brunswick's line he bears a crabb'd affection,

Because the House of Bourbon is his predilection

Ld. Tweedside, in reply.

Hoot, hoot, I canna think him sic a ninny,

To pouch a loui rather than a guinea,

And au for nought but love and itch o' treason:

Sic deed wad prove the fallow void o' reason,

A subject fit, in murky cell

Wi' Bedlamites for aye to dwell.

No, no, my Lords, say what ye will,

The kallon has some conscience still.

K—g G—e he says has bairns, and times are hard,

And for this cause he lately has declar'd

It gangs against his grain, and he's nae willing,

To tak fra him a single siller shilling.

Weel then, I argue thus a fortiori—

Gude faith, 'twad be a strange unlikely story,

That, fond of Louis, as ye say he is,

He'd ask for siller at a time like this.

Hoot, hoot, ye ken full weel, my Lords, I trow,

The Grand Monarque's a broken-merchant now;

And to their sorrow, creditors have found

He canna pay a mark in ilka pound.

Is this a time to ask for pension,

Amang sic quarrel and dissension,

That Louis canna get a sous

To pay his tradesmen's bills, and keep his house?

But now, my Lords, I fear ye're weary grown

O' my long talk, and T—y 'gins to frown.

He seems to be in a most deev'lish passion,

As if he'd gie us Pundar's sang—D—n

Seize ye au.—Weel, now I've said my say,

And now my auld friend T—y fire away.

The colour glow'd in T—y's cheek,

Thrice he essay'd, but could not speak.

With blow of fist (so fierce his choler burn'd)

'Tis said, he split the C—l Board in twain.

At length, when wonted pow'rs of voice return'd,

He thus begun in high indignant strain.

Ld. T—y.

My Lords, I don't regard one single jot

Of all that sell from that dry-bellied Scot.

Quick, rous'd at this, and fraught with ire,

His eye-balls flashing hostile fire,

Tweed-side retorted:—D—n your blude,

Gin I had not a mind as gude

For this illib'ral national reflaction

To make your life and saul pay satisfaction;

For au ye luke sae grim, and talk sae big,

I neither heed ye, nor your muckle wig.

Order! order! order! all!

Order echoed through the hall.

Lord Hopeful.

O fie! O fie! my Lords, command your passion,

Or else our C—ls will disgrace the nation.

Rude language this, unmeet to fall

From members grave in C—l hall.

O, may this fray be never told;

O, may no tongue the tale unfold;

And yet, I speak it with great sorrow,

The tale will all be told to-morrow.

Perhaps ev'n now some patriot-spy

In corner snug is standing by,

To catch up ev'ry word that falls

Within the compass of these walls.

O, tell it not in Gath!

O, tell it not in Bath!

But sure it will be told afar,

And sure it will be publish'd near.

Then what will foreign nations say

When they're inform'd of this affray?

They'll say our C—l is all riot,

No better than a Polish diet.

O, glorious news for Sh—d—n and F—x!

O, welcome subject for their witty jokes!

How will they chuckle when they once find out

We make as much fracas within as they without!

But in one point they're wiser far than we;

Among themselves they very well agree.

My Lords, our measures only they oppose;

Disdain not to learn wisdom from your foes.

Ld. Courtly.

My Lords, I hope you'll one and all attend,

And mark the prudence of our premier-friend.

A forward youth he is, of wond'rous parts,

He charms our ears, and captivates our hearts:

Persuasion ever dwells upon his tongue

So very much, I never think him wrong.

Endow'd with all his father's force and fire,

In wisdom grave the son excels the sire.

In years advanc'd thrice ten, or little more,

He boasts the cautious temper of three score.

My Lords, let loss of place alarm our fears,

And bind us to this youth, who's wise above his years.

Ld. Make-peace.

My Lords, this prudent motion I for one

(In which, I trust, I shall not stand alone)

Most cordially approve:—And now, my Lords,

I'm up—I wish to utter a few words;

Happy, if any thing that falls from me

Should be the means to make us all agree.

Revolving this strange matter in my mind,

The only proper method I can find,

Is to call in two men of famous skill,

Well read in ev'ry book on costive ill.

The sons of Aesculapius best will know

How far a case like this may safely go.

My Lords, you'll own, this is a point that falls

Without the competency of these walls.

The question was no sooner mov'd,

Than by the Board nem. con. approv'd.

Enter two Physicians.

Ld Category.

Well, doctors, you have heard the case, no doubt;

What are your thoughts upon it? Pray speak out.

Dr. Primus.

My Lord, I think the matter

Is possible in nature,

For any man or woman

(Tho' 'tis not very common)

In such-like case to go

For thirty days or so,

Secure from all alarms of dissolution,

Or any injury to constitution.

Ld. C—y.

Did ever case like this in all

Your practice and experience fall?

Dr. P.

I cannot say it did—

—Ld. C—y.

Then reason give

How costive patient in such case could live.

Dr. P.

My Lord, in fault of such evacuation,

Our system operates by transpiration,

That is, my Lord, by porous exsudation.

Ld. C—y to Dr. Secundus.

Now, Doctor, give us your advice.

Dr. Secundus.

I will, my Lord, and in a trice,

And partly with my friend I say—Content.

In other points I widely must dissent.

For in default of such evacuation,

I own my learned Brother's transpiration,

In plainer terms, his porous exsudation,

Might help Dame Nature for twelve days or so;

Further than this no mortal man can go.

The stoutest K—g that ever wore a crown

In half a month must lay his sceptre down.

Ld. C—y to the Board.

My Lords, this case is harder than we thought,

And G—knows when to issue 'twill be brought.

What do you say? Our time should now be spent

In thinking of some new expedient.

Ld. Dinner-bell.

My Lords, if my poor feeble voice be heard,

This puzzling point had better be deserr'd,

And to the learned corps in W—k-lane reserr'd.

Meanwhile, my Lords, we may go home and dine,

Recruit our spirits with a glass of wine,

May take a little private recreatiion,

And then resume this deep deliberation.

Done, done,

Nem. con.

Now, gentle reader, should some Lord invite thee,

Perhaps a sumptuous dinner may delight thee;

But if no lordly invitations come,

Then cat thy mutton-chop, and be content at home.

But if nor house nor home be thine,

Nor mutton-chop, nor silver coin,

Alas, thy case is very hard,

Thou'dst better change it with our Bard.

Peter lives well, and at free charge,

Until he's set once more at large;

And that, I think, must be ere long,

Unless Lord T—y, right or wrong,

To shew how far his pow'r can go

In wreaking vengeance on a foe,

Should grasp him in his arbitrary paw,

And give him[*] Bishop Atterbury's law.

But if he does, this won't hang Peter,

Nor stop th' effusions of his metre.

'Tis true, such law would make him prance,

And send him cross the sea to France;

But T—y's utmost malice

No further goes than Calais.

From thence our Bard may strait proceed,

And at Versailles its merits plead.

What tho' the plot did not succeed,

His will was ready for the deed.

Ev'n good intentions of this sort

Are well receiv'd at Bourbon's Court.

It ever was the Gallic nature

To hug a rebel and a traitor;

Whene'er they find a rogue in grain,

For future jobs his service they retain.

Here may our Bard snug refuge take,

As did ere while that Yankee snake,

Like Peter foster'd by his K—g

Till he shot forth his vengeful sting,

To wound the land which gave him bread,

And rais'd from earth his recreant head.

And if capricious Fortune should befriend him,

And old Ben Franklin's wond'rous luck attend him,

Peter, high-honour'd by our Gallic foe,

May figure at Versailles a rebel Plenipo.

But now 'tis time our bus'ness should go on,

I wish these guzzling C—l Lords were done;

For sure they take a tedious while to dine—

—Oh! here they come well-flush'd with rosy wine;

Two-bottle men, I warrant you, or more;

Two did I say?—More likely three or four.

President of the Board.

Once more, my Lords, we're all in C—l met.

Let ev'ry noble member take his seat.

And now I hope you'll be good boys,

Refrain from quarrel and from noise;

Commit no outrage or disorder,

Or I must call you all to order.

Ld. T—y.

My Lord, you've spoken like a prudent man,

And keep us all to order, if you can.

Ld. Category

Is there no message come from W—k lane?

Can't all the learned there this case explain?

Dr. Deputy.

My Lord, in due obedience to your high command,

Deputed from our learned body here I stand.

With long deliberation

On points of transpiration,

Or-porous exsudation,

Our minds are all in deep and dark confusion,

And cannot grope the way to fair conclusion.

My Lords, the members of our college

Do all with one consent acknowledge

The case is not within their knowledge.

The point suspended must remain,

Till France, and Italy, and Spain,

With ev'ry other learned nation,

Have penn'd a Latin dissertation.

When all our rays of science are collected,

We hope sufficient light will be reflected,

Some fair conclusion to make out,

And clear this point beyond all doubt.

Meantime, my Lords, you'll not forget

That we've receiv'd no money yet.

You know, my Lords, with men of our description

The maxim is—no guinea, no prescription.

In this one case our brethren all agree,

That nothing must be done without a fee.

This wanting, not a word they'll write or speak,

But keep within their teeth their Latin and their Greek.

If then you'd know our whole collected sense,

You must not be too sparing of your pence.

Our name is Legion—we are many,

And ev'ry man must have his guinea.

—Down with a hundred thousand pounds or so—

We'll then begin, and see how far 'twill go.

Instant at name of hundred thousand pounds,

Lord Hopeful, starting from his seat, cry'd—Zounds!

This Peter Pindar plagues us more than Hastings,—

Amidst such lavish spendings, and such wastings,

My sinking fund will ne'er go on,

And then, my Lords, we're all undone;

For F—x and B—ke will pour forth fierce orations,

And drive us from our places and our stations.

Doctor, we give no answer now;

To-morrow you shall further know.

Dr. Deputy withdraws.

Ld. T—y to the Board.

My Lords, we nothing further can discover;

This Peter Pindar's trial must—stand over.

When W—k-lane this puzzling question clears,

Or stronger evidence from France appears,

I'll send a proper summons to you all,

And hope you'll meet me here in C—l Hall,

Meanwhile, till we have fairly try'd him,

Pen, ink, and paper, shall not be denied him.

Peter.

Thank you, my Lord, I'll use your favour well,

And this, my next d—n ode shall tell.

C—l adjourns.

Peter, I see thy cause will tire them out.

Yes, yes, thou'lt get off now, I make no doubt.

But what avails this one escape?

Thou'lt soon be in another scrape.

For ah! my ill-starr'd rhyming brother,

Thou must be hang'd one day or other.

What say'st thou, Peter, to all this?

Peter.

Why, faith, I take it much amiss,

That thou'st stopp'd short of thy intention,

To sport thy Muse with my suspension.

Long while I've been in tip-toe expectation

To see how thou'dst perform the operation.

But this postponing is an artful scheme,

My penetrating eye perceives thy drist,

Thy Muse, unequal to the lofty theme,

Would hide her nakedness with this poor shift.

Forgive me, if I do thee wrong

By rash conjecture of thy song.

I grant thou hast some little skill—

—I see that thou hast words at will

In common chat, and such-like humble sport—

Sermoni propiora—seems thy forte.

But where's thy simile, and phrase sublime?

For Fancy's flights, I fear, thou hast no rhyme.

No;—loftiness of song is not for thee,

But Homer, Virgil, Milton, and for ME.

And now my hand is fairly in,

I'll shew thee how thou must begin,

If thou would'st boldly soar in epic line,

And rival Homer's lofty song or mine.

Now cock thine eye,

And see me fly.

"Of T—y's direful wig, of vengeful laws,

"Of plot and costive K—g, the tragic cause

"Which launch'd from Tyburn-tree to Pluto's reign

"The soul of tuneful Bard untimely slain,

"Sing heav'nly Muse, &c."—Thus must thy numbers flow

To hurl a lofty Bard to shades below;

And always end thy song with brilliant dash,

Which Frenchmen call eclat, and Englishmen call flash.

Observe my lessons well, and by and by

Thy feeble unfledg'd Muse may learn to fly.

Now, Peter Pindar, without joking,

Thou'rt grown so saucy and provoking,

Thou'lt rouse my chol'ric indignation

To give thee such a flagellation

As thou hadst never yet,

And wilt not soon forget.

Then take this little sample of my skill,

And own I've similes, as well as words, at will.

1. Fox and Grapes Simile.

As Fox which eyes the ripen'd grapes,

And knows no fruit is sweeter,

But if he can't, won't have those grapes;

So'rt thou, O Reynard Peter.

2. The disappointed Swain Simile.

As Swain who woos a pretty maid,

And fain at church would meet her;

But ah! whose rival wins that maid;

So'rt thou, green-willow Peter.

3. The Old Maid Simile.

As ancient Maid who will not wed,

If suitors won't entreat her,

And sorely rails at marriage-bed;

So'rt thou, forsaken Peter.

4. Grub-street Bard Simile.

As vilest Bard who mocks his K—g

In motley dogg'rel metre,

Still disregarded by his K—g;

So'rt thou, O Grub-street Peter.

5. Pindar and his Muse, like to like,

As is thy darling and prolific Muse

Of easy virtue, and unblushing face;

So'rt thou (forgive me if I wrong accuse)

Devoid of honour, loyalty, or grace.

Peter.

What? touch my honour! rather strike me dead.—

—My dearest rhyming Brother Peter,

So well I love thee and thy metre,

I would not touch a hair upon thy head.

With such a pleasant and facetious fellow

I'd sooner drink a bottle, and be mellow.

My dearest Bard, with thee O may I swing,

If I don't love thee, as thou lov'st thy K—g.

But as to honour, Peter, say no more,

Repeat no grievance, aggravate no sore.

Peter.

Honour I had—

—Yes, yes, no doubt, no doubt,

But usage hard has worn thy honour out.

But 'tis no loss, for what canst thou

With this same honour have to do?

It never sold thy bolus or thy pill,

It never paid thy printer K—y's bill.

If then thy honour brings no profit,

What good to thee can e'er come of it?

Thy brother wit, Jack Falstaff, us'd to say

That of such useless bauble he'd have none,

Which could not keep him out of danger's way,

Nor heal a wound, nor set a broken bone.

Of Falstaff's prudence I produce this sample,

For Peter Pindar's lesson and example;

For, sure, you are congenial souls

As ever met o'er flowing bowls,

Or e'er carous'd with giddy heir apparent,

Or made disloyal jest of r—l parent.

O, had I Shakespeare's deathless lyre,

O, would his Muse my verse inspire,

Thy name, O Peter, still should float along

The stream of Time in never-drowning song;

And whilst the years in long succession roll,

Still Jack and Peter should swim cheek by jowl.

—But now of flourishing enough.

Let's find the thread where we broke off.

My Muse forgets—O fie upon her!—

—But now I recollect—'twas honour.

Of this I tell thee once again,

That honour's loss will be thy gain.

This honour would not let thee sing,

Nor mock and ridicule thy K—g.

Such loyal monitor would strike thee dumb,

And poet Pindar turn to poet mum;

And this would be thy certain ruin,

Thy woeful starving and undoing.

—But this is only wasting precious time—

I'm now to give thee simile sublime.

The Gibbet Simile.

As when some rogue's on lofty gibbet hung,

Some rogue as impudent as ever swung,

His ghastly corpse all dangling in the air,

Retaining ev'n in death a dire King-killing air.

Sure, Peter, this must freeze thy very blood;

Thou'rt very bad if this won't make thee good.

But since thou'rt so ambitious and presumptuous grown,

I'll hoist thee higher still—but then I'll fetch thee down.

But be n't afraid, 'tis all in sport,

And thou'lt receive but little hurt.

Nay, in this game thou'lt be the only winner,

For thou, not I, wilt carry off the dinner.

The Kite Simile.

As when some C-ts-w-d Kite ascends on high,

Waves in the wind, or sails along the sky,

If prey's in view, and hunger presses hard,

Slap down he comes to snatch a chick from poultry yard.

Now, Peter, thou hast stol'n that chicken,

'Twill serve thee for a little picking.

I guess that thou'rt a greedy elf,

Thou'lt eat it ev'ry bit thyself.

Perchance to K—y thou wouldst help a wing,

But deuce a bit to me, or ev'n to G—e thy K—g.

Peter, I like not shooting in the dark,

Because not one in three may hit thy mark.

Give me that open day-light rebel poet

Who tells his name, nor cares if all men know it.

But thou behind this Pindar's mask art snug

As biting vermin latent close in rug,

By Gods unnam'd, by British men clep'd—bug.

Yes; this bush-fight

Is thy delight.

How oft like coward savage hast thou laid

In dark and silent nightly ambuscade,

Thy spiteful feather'd shaft to wing

And wound the heart of G—e thy K—g,

A K—g who never injur'd thee,

But very much offended me,

By such disuse of r—l shears,

And such neglect of Peter Pindar's ears.

Such cowardly attack

I never will forgive;

I'll point thee out a black

As long as e'er I live.

I've more to add—which further still will grate;

For tho' thou art a witty fellow,

With thee I never will be mellow:

Assassins ever were my mortal hate.

Yes; now more seriously I come to think,

I must recall my former hasty motion;

If e'er with rebel rogues like thee I drink,

May baneful juice of hemlock be my potion.

Moreover, Peter; if the Fates decree

That judgment must o'ertake both thee and me

For this our crime

Of wicked rhyme;

If thou and I must both be shipp'd away,

To found new families at Bot'ny Bay;

Before such foreign trip I take,

This first inquiry will I make,

What passengers are going?

And if I find that thou art there,

I'll cry, rash mariner! forbear,

Nor be thy own undoing.

If life, or ship, or cargo, thy regard,

For once O take a convict's word;

From steerage drag that wicked, wicked Bard,

And toss him headlong over-board.

Now, reader, faith my Muse is at stand

What further sport to give thee on the land;

And so to end the matter,

I'll dash him in the water.

And here I've such a simile to treat with,

As every day, I'm sure, thou wilt not meet with;

Thou'lt swear that even Pindar Peter

Ne'er made a longer or a better.

I'll launch him off in majestoso,

Because 'tis fit that he should go so.

As when some convict cleaves the wat'ry way:

Condemn'd to colonize at Bot'ny Bay;

The bark unequal to the sinful freight,

Her timbers groan beneath the pressive weight.

Lo! how the welkin low'rs! what clouds arise!

See! angry Neptune mounts into the skies.

On ev'ry side tremendous billows roar,

Old Ocean's rous'd, and foams from shore to shore.

See! lightnings flash; hark! dreadful thunders roll,

And rend the black'ning sky from pole to pole.

The trembling pilot quits the helm, and leaves

His bark the sport of raging winds and waves.

Hark! what shrieks and dismal skies,

Hark! what crashing,

Hark! what slashing,

Hark! what bumping,

Hark! what thumping,

Rumbling, jumbling,

Fumbling, tumbling,

Cursing, swearing,

Ripping, tearing,

Shouting, bawling,

Main-mast falling,

Planks all starting,

Decks all parting,

Friends lamenting,

Foes relenting,

Ranting, raving,

Mercy craving,

Peter trembling,

Not dissembling,

Pindar quaking

For ode-making,

Vessel rocking, found'ring, sinking,

Sailors wicked and unthinking,

(Ah! not lov'd grog, but briny water drinking)

Drowning, and blasting one another's eyes.

[*] There!—down she goes with Peter Pindar in her:

This 'tis to have on board a grievous sinner.

—But lo! who's he that floats upon the main?

By Jupiter, 'tis Peter up again.

Do all I can to keep him down,

This buoyant fellow will not drown.

I see our poet's tuneful breath

Will not be stopp'd by wat'ry death.

But now again I'm at a stand

How I shall get him back to land.

O, would some vessel but appear in view,

Or passing to the old world or the new.—

—Huzza!—a dolphin, charm'd by Peter's song,

Bestrid by Peter, nimbly glides along.

Alternate up and down he steers his course,

Like Master Tommy riding hobby-horse.

Say, Peter, didst thou ever ride so prettily before?

Cheer up, my boy:—Thou'lt soon behold thy native shore.

Kind dolphin, speed thy way to Plymouth Sound,

And land thy poet sasc on Cornish ground,

Rejoice, O friends of Peter and of ode,

You'll see him soon: he's posting on the road.

Escap'd from perils both of land and main,

Your Bard is turn'd upon your hands again.

FINIS

Notes

*
Vide & eme Sop in the Pan.
↵

*
The phrase is rather stiff-rump'd, but Peter Pindar must answer for it.
↵

*
Speak-Truth.
↵

*
Faithful Interpreter.
↵

*
The Abp. of Sens is now a fellow-sufferer with Peter, and they may condole with each other. Peter, in his next plot, must make his overtures to Monsieur Neckar.
↵

*
Vide State Trials, Bp. A—y's Case.
↵

*
Pause ad libitum.
↵

BIRCH FOR PETER PINDAR, Esq. A BURLESQUE POEM.

BY PINDAROMASTIX.

—STULTA EST CLEMENTIA CUM TOT UBIQUE

VATIBUS OCCURRAS, PERITURAE PARCERE CHARTAE.

JUV.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR G. G. J. AND J. ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

M.DCC.LXXXVIII.

TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.

O YOU who high on learned benches sit,

Dread arbiters of dulness and of wit,

Whose task it is to mark with eagle eye

Where poets sink too low, or soar too high,

Judge well my ups and downs, my wit and metre,

And swear that Pindar's self was never greater;

But ah! you won't, for none can please like Peter.

In Peter's praise you're louder still and louder,

I fear that rogue has giv'n you all love-powder.

O say, dread sirs, what Sop in Pan will please you;

Will fattest haunch of buck or doe appease you?

Shall rump and dozen speedily be sent you?

Shall pheasant, hare, and partridge, compliment you?

What Bard can bribe with Sop of[*] better savour?

Nor you reject a poet's proffer'd favour;

Then, grateful, deign a little helping puff,

One gentle blast from you would be enough.

Say but, the work's replete with wit and fun,

Quick thro' the land, like wild-fire, it would run,

And ere the moon her circling course had roll'd,

Two thousand copies would be fairly sold.

In my good luck you all should have a share,

And, sure, you'll own such offer's very fair.

—Perchance your doublets, sirs, are waxing bare—

—Perchance your linen wants some small repair—

Or if your hats of G—e the Second's reign,

Too long expos'd to sun, and wind, and rain,

Have lost their stiff'ning and their jetty hue,

Your learned heads I'd straightway crown anew;

No longer should your shabby garb proclaim

Neglected merit, and a nation's shame.

T' equip you all genteelly, comme il faut,

On R—ns our friends, I'd boldly draw;

Nor fear dishonour of protested bill

'Midst rapid sale of Birch, and thriving till.

But if ten thousand copies once were sold,

Your brazen-headed canes should blaze with burnish'd gold.

And now, dread sirs, if all this will not win you,

Why then, dread sirs, the D—l, sure, is in you.

But neither you nor he, my sportive Muse shall hinder,

I will have one more slap at wicked Peter Pindar.

Notes

*
The C—l Reviewers have done the Author the honour to remark, that his Sop in the Pan was not sufficiently savoury. Quaere, may not their palates have been vitiated by too long feasting on Peter Pindar's ragoûuts?
↵

Information about this book

Title statement

Birch for Peter Pindar, Esq: A burlesque poem. By Pindaromastix.

Pindaromastix.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3535

ID [isbn10]

1106005341

ID [isbn13]

9781106005342

ID [TCP]

K018102.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3317076095

ID [ECLL]

1217900600

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Source

— Birch for Peter Pindar, Esq: A burlesque poem. By Pindaromastix., Pindaromastix., Reed, Joseph, 1723-1787.. iv,62p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for G. G. J. and J. Robinson,. 1788.. [Peter Pindar = John Wolcot.] [Possibly by Joseph Reed; on p.iii of this work the author states that he also wrote "A sop in the pan" (attributed to Reed by H&L).] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN46658.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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