Sop in the pan for Peter Pindar, Esq. Or, a late invitation to Cheltenham: a burlesque poem. By Pindaromastix

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- [titlepage]

- TO THE PUBLIC.

SOP IN THE PAN, &c.

HAIL! funny Bard, of never-ceasing lay,

To Chelt'nham's fav'rite fountain speed thy way.

Where'er thy commons be, and mimic joke,

Whether with guzzling cits 'midst London smoke,

Or, far remov'd to thy own native moors,

With Cornish tinners, 'squires, or hugging boors;

Or whether thou'rt still at thy old fav'rite sport,

Eaves-dropping slily at St. James's Court,

To catch another Kitchen Tale,

In Ode Pindaric to retail;

Where'er this friendly call may find thee,

Quick, mount thy Pegasus, and take thy muse behind thee;

(Not winged Pegasus in Poet's Fable,

But hackney Pegasus in liv'ry stable)

And whilst thou'rt jogging on the turn-pike road,

Set all thy brains at work to hatch a merry Ode

To tickle thy lov'd King

At Chelt'nham's purging spring:

So shall thy Muse the royal favour gain,

And give thee rank among the courtly train;

That rank for which, sure, Fate and Nature fram'd thee,

Since neither stocks nor pillory has claim'd thee.

Yes, witty Peter,

Thy merry metre,

If right I ween, will very soon

Exalt thee to be Court Buffoon,

With title and with pension,

And all that thou canst wish or mention.

No more Pindaric Ballads shalt thou sing,

Which poor, precarious, scanty dinner bring

To meagre Poetaster;

But pamper'd, courtly songster shalt thou be,

Of jolly plight, and full of heart-felt glee,

The darling of thy Master.

Thus when the K—g,

From Chelt'nham spring,

To Cloacina's temple shall repair

To pour the due libation,

His funny fav'rite only shall attend him there,

To help the operation.

Nor, faithless, thou this presage deem

Delusive sport of Poet's dream;

For whilst thy brother Bard of late

On Cloacina's tripod sat,

My fancy wand'ring to and fro,

I heard these accents rumble in the vault below.

"Haste thee Bard of funny lay,

"Peter Pindar come away,

"Friend and fav'rite of thy K—g

"Hie thee down to C—m spring."

The sounds which struck my ravish'd ear

Were more than mortal lugs could bear.

I sat amaz'd,

I gasp'd, I gaz'd,

So wond'rous was the strain,

It almost crack'd my brain.

My soul was struck with dire affray,

I button'd up and ran away.

Now, Peter, if thou'lt not believe this true,

Then, Peter, thou'rt an unbelieving Jew;

But if thou art a Jew, it may be prov'd from hence,

That thou art circumcis'd, by plainest consequence.

This thou know'st best, and 'tis thy own affair,

For, circumcis'd or not, I very little care.

But what I say is true as true can be,

And if thou'lt not believe, then hear and see.

[Now, gentle reader, thou art to suppose a Voice is heard as thus:]

Funny Peter,

Funny Peter,

Full of metre,

Full of metre.

Peter.

Hark! what sounds assail mine ear?

Sure 'tis my S—n's voice I hear.

O yes, from none but him these words can flow,

The r—l duplicates full well I know.

G—e.

Yes, Peter, 'tis thy lov'd and loving K—g;

For thee my bowels yearn at C—m spring.

Now, Peter, run with utmost speed,

To help thy K—g in time of need.

Put thy better foot before,

As thou didst in days of yore,

In thy youthful occupation;

Whether some pregnant Cornish dame,

Or some hapless virgin's shame,

Call'd for quick obstetrication.

Friend Peter, thou'rt so very droll, I find,

So full of humour and of comic matter,

To thee this courtly office I've assign'd,

To help the passage of my C—m water.

Not one of all my subjects do I know

So fit to fill this pretty post as thou.

Act well thy part in this, and by and by

In other points thy talents I may try.

But, for the present, this will suit thee best,

'Twill give thee scope for many a merry jest;

For well I know that ev'ry thing thou'lt tell,

To make the people laugh at C—m well.

But, Peter, in this fun of thine there are

Some things in which thy jokes are push'd too far.

My r—l speech to make the ridicule

Of ev'ry little silly grinning fool;—

My words of Majesty for thee to play with,

Are liberties I neither can nor will away with.

I fear thou'lt turn out one of that vile sort

Of varlets which infest each monarch's court,

Who wear our livery suits and spite us,

Who eat our pudding and backbite us.

Peter.

O, good my Liege, let me, your slave,

In humblest wise your pardon crave:

Perish that rhyme and doggrel jest,

If aught offends your r—l breast.

But, Sire, if you'll believe me,

You widely misconceive me,

Or else some courtier's envious tongue

Has done your slave this mighty wrong.

Where'er your sacred speech I quoted,

And in Pindarics fondly noted,

My sole intention was to prove

My zeal, my loyalty and love.

Of friends and lovers 'tis the usual way

To speak of all their fav'rites do and say,

Of ev'ry little pleasing anecdote to tell,

On ev'ry custom'd word and syllable to dwell.

My Liege, I long'd to let your people know

How wond'rous wise and quick your questions flow,

To make your loving subjects all rejoice

To hear the pleasing echo of your voice,

For which, believe me, there is such demand,

From folks of all degrees throughout the land,

That Kearsley's presses groan both night and day,

And his poor Dev'ls have neither rest nor play.

Ev'n subterraneous tinners club their groats,

And hungry Scotchmen sell their very oats,

To purchase this delicious treat,

For which they gladly forfeit drink and meat.

O, if you knew how well your subjects love you,

I'm sure it would with joy and transport move you.

It glads the cockles of my heart to tell

How rapidly my Odes Pindaric sell;

Sure never monarch's words went off so well.

G—e.

Peter, I fear, in coming to this water,

Thou'lt void thy wit, and only learn to flatter.

Already, I perceive, thou'st got thy cue,

I guess, from some of my St. J—s's crew.

But think not thou t' obtain my favour

By words of such insipid favour.

Think'st thou I'm hither for palaver come,

With which, thou know'st, I'm surfeited at home?

'Twas not for this thou heard'st me say

Funny Peter, haste and come away;

For thee my bowels yearn at C—m spring,

O come to meet thy lov'd and loving K—g.

Whilst here I live in vacant ease,

And do and say just what I please;

Now take my ride, now take my walk,

Now with my C—m subjects talk:

Exempt from cabinets and public toils,

Releas'd from Th—w, P-tt, and council broils;

Whilst here I purge away my gout and bile,

Thy merry jests shall tickle me the while.

I know thou art a clever dog,

A witty and facetious rogue,

So full of humour and of comic matter,

Thy fun promotes the passage of this water.

Besides, I find thy witty folly

A sovereign cure for melancholy.

Now whilst my couriers evil tiding bring

Of P—a's slipp'ry oscillating K—g,

Whene'er thou seest my r—l breast

O'ercharg'd with sorrow and with grief,

Let off some pun, or witty jest,

So shalt thou give me sure relief.

Then cease thy fawning and grimace,

Suit thy demeanor to thy place.

Further—'tis thine to tell me public rumour,

And bolt out truth whenever 'tis thy humour.

This priv'lege rare all jesters hold,

Allow'd from merry times of old.

But, Peter, lik'st thou such a birth as this?

Peter.

O yes, yes, yes, my Liege—O yes, yes, yes.

G—e.

Peter, leave off that hasty way of speaking,

Habits indulg'd are very hard of breaking.

I can't divine where thou this trick hast got,

For sure I am, from me thou hadst it not.

Peter.

This trick, my Liege, I caught in mockery and play,

And, trust me, now I can't leave off this apish way.

G—e.

Aye, very like; for mocking's catching, I've heard say.

But let's digress no farther, lest we lose our way.

Now, Peter, know it is our r—l will,

That thou this merry office shalt fulfil.

In rhyme or prose display thy future jest;

But rhyme thou'st us'd me to, and so I like that best.

Mark well my words: I charge thee speak thy mind;

So shalt thou prove thy Master ever kind.

Whene'er I ask thee for advice,

Be sure to give it in a trice.

And now I'll try thy honesty and skill,

To see how well thy duty thou'lt fulfil.

I long to put thy talents to the test,

And from thy answers now, I'll judge of all the rest.

Now, Peter, truths there are, I hear,

Deep lodg'd in courtly well,

Which seldom come to Princes' ear,

And none but friends, like thee, will tell.

Then speak out, Peter, in thy own blunt way,

What do the people of my measures say?

Peter.

Why, truly, Sire, they say it is a sad disaster

That servants should rebel against so good a Master.

G—e.

True, Peter, true; 'tis even so;

But, in this case, what can I do?

That Th—w looks so grim, and talks so big,

When he gets on that awful C—y wig;

With fist uprear'd, he gives me such a frown,

As if he really meant to knock me down.

Then B—y P-tt, that stubborn, head-strong boy,

Is doom'd no less my quiet to annoy.

What would they more?

They've all the loaves and fishes;

They taste of all my store

Of sugar-plums and dishes;

And yet they quarrel all the while,

Like thieves dividing stolen spoil.

They're just like all my former friends,

Nor K—g nor common-weal they mind, but their own ends.

Now, Peter, tell me, what is thy advice?

Peter.

O yes, I will, my Liege, and in a trice.

When saucy servants give themselves such airs,

Exert your r—l foot, and kick the knaves down stairs.

Nought like a sudden tumble,

To make proud spirits humble.

G—e.

Why, Peter, thy advice is full and round,

But whether altogether safe and sound,

I must consider on't

When I have slept upon't.

But, Peter, say, hast thou no private end?

No fav'rite of thy own to recommend?

Peter.

Not I, my Liege, upon my troth;

On this I'll take my Bible oath.

All one to Peter whether Whig or Tory;

I only wish your happiness and glory.

To me it matters not who guides the helm,

So but prosperity attend the realm.

Yet, if these thankless fellows were turn'd out,

There is a man or two I could point out.

What says my Liege of C—s F—x?

G—e.

On him and all his crew a p—x.

Peter.

But, then, my Liege, there's P—d's honest Duke.

G—e.

O name him, name him not, 'twill make me puke.

Peter, methinks, I smell a rat,

And shrewdly guess what thou'dst be at.

But play me none of these dog's tricks;

I relish not thy politics.

But now I feel another motion

From this same C—m's wat'ry potion.

Peter, attend me, thou know'st where,

And do thy proper office there.

So shalt thou merit my regard,

And all thy service meet a full reward.

[Dialogue between G—e and Peter ends.]

Now! brother craft in doggrel rhyme,

I hope thou'lt take my word another time.

No lying Bard, thou seest, I was,

For all I sung is come to pass.

O, Peter, 'tis a goodly thing

To be man-midwife to a lab'ring K—g,

At C—m spring.

Such office to a T will fit thee,

Sure nothing better could have hit thee;

Thy work so easy, thou'lt think nought no't,

Thy birth so sweet, I'm glad thy Master thought on't.

Now breed no more Pindaric riot,

But eat and drink, and sleep in quiet;

No longer tittle tattles tell

Of what, what, what? and well, well, well.

Henceforth forbear, poor Laureat Warton

And Birth-day Song to be so smart on.

Whate'er Tom's model and design

For future Ode, e'en pass it by;

'Tis neither flesh nor fish of thine,

Thou'st other fish to fry.

A truce with all,

Both great and small;

With ev'ry brother courtier thou canst name us,

From B—y P-tt quite down to B—y Ramus:

Birds alike of courtly feather

Flock and fatten all together.

Now, Peter, hold thy blabbing tongue,

And tell no tales, be't right or wrong.

If curious gossips want to pry,

Make Irish Paddy's short reply:

"By Jasus! honey, now I see and don't see,

"And many a thing, my dear, I see and won't see."

Peter, I know thou'rt given to tattling;

Once more I charge thee, curb thy prattling.

I really wish, with all my heart,

Thou may'st not fail in this weak part.

If counsel good thou'lt not remember,

And steadily pursue it,

And govern thy unruly member,

I tell thee, thou shalt rue it.

Disgrac'd at court, what canst thou do?

Or where for food and raiment go?

Both ins and outs will flout thee,

Ev'n Printers' Devils will scout thee.

Those Printers, Peter, are a wicked race;

All Authors know it:

Without remorse, they'll grind the very face

Of friendless Poet.

To cope with them, there was but one

Of all our corps, and he is gone:

Athletic Johnson, with an angry frown,

Could clinch his fist, and knock these fellows down.

He kept them all in awe so well,

Though soundly drubb'd, they durst not tell.

But now our champion is no more,

And long may we his loss deplore.

For cracking Printers' crowns with fist or cane,

We ne'er shall see the like of Sam again.

And now of his support bereft,

And friendless and defenceless left,

They'll wreak their spite upon us all,

The weakest still must go to th' wall.

'Tis true, in fair and prosp'rous times,

And eager call for Poets' rhymes,

These Printers can be civil;

But when Pindarics will not sell,

They'll d—n both them and thee to h-ll

Headlong, to serve the D—l.

O, Peter, Printers are a broken reed

For Bards to rest uupon in time of need.

Thrice happy thou! whom Fortune's golden show'r

Has kindly plac'd beyond their griping power.

Then if thou know'st when thou art well,

Thy courtly pudding eat, and nothing tell.

But if thy saucy gibe must needs break out,

Search out for game among that rebel rout

Which thwarts thy Master's pleasure;

On B—ke and Sh—d-n, and wicked F-x,

Thou may'st pour forth Pindaric jokes,

Sans number and sans measure.

What though thy quondam cronies mouth and bellow,

And call thee turn-coat, knave, and sh-tt-n fellow?

Tell them that thou hast done no more

Than patriots oft' have done before.

Tell them 'tis aye

The Patriots' way,

To snarl and grin,

Till they get in.

Ask where's the man,

Of all their clan,

Since time began,

Or reivers ran,

Whom sop in pan

(Say what they can)

Did not trepan.

Come, then, my Buck,

Cheer up thy pluck,

As Brother W—d says;

A fig for all the patriot clan,

Enjoy thy goodly sop in pan,

And happy be thy days.

FINIS.

SOP IN THE PAN FOR PETER PINDAR, ESQ. OR, A LATE INVITATION TO CHELTENHAM: A BURLESQUE POEM.

BY PINDAROMASTIX.

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

MDCCLXXXVIII.

TO THE PUBLIC.

SOME apology may be required for my making so free with an old favourite of yours. So many of you as are in the habit of admiring the sublime performances of our English Pindar, will, do doubt, exclaim against me for assigning a post at Court, the most humiliating of all others, to your darling Poet. But this is the very thing I intended: for this favourite of yours (like many other favourites) has been spoiled by too much indulgence, and is grown so intolerably saucy, that he ought to be taken down a little. But there may be others among you who will acknowledge P. Pindar to be fair game, and who may say that this gentle castigation is not half so much as he deserves for that impudent mockery and caricature which he has so often pointed at his S—n. To all such, it may not be amiss to intimate, that I have another birch in soak for Master Peter, which, I think, will give him a smart flagellation. The few lines which I now hazard the publication of, are only meant as preparatory to the introduction of this other labour of my sportive Muse, provided that I find this my first essay is tolerably well received, and that it is acknowledged to be of sufficient merit to intitle me, in some small degree, to the signature of

PINDAROMASTIX.

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Title statement

Sop in the pan for Peter Pindar, Esq. Or, a late invitation to Cheltenham: a burlesque poem. By Pindaromastix

Pindaromastix.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5404

ID [isbn10]

1106024036

ID [isbn13]

9781106024039

ID [TCP]

K117112.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3317197292

ID [ECLL]

1255000100

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Source

— Sop in the pan for Peter Pindar, Esq. Or, a late invitation to Cheltenham: a burlesque poem. By Pindaromastix, Pindaromastix., Reed, Joseph, 1723-1787.. [4],20p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for G. G. J. and J. Robinson,. 1788.. [Peter Pindar = John Wolcot.] [This satire sometimes attributed to Joseph Reed (H&L).] [Reproduction of original from the Cambridge University Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT155694.] [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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