Scarce had he utter'd when a noise was heard; And now, behold, a motley band appear'd! With Babel sounds at once the kitchen rings, Of groom, page, barber, and the best of Kings! And lo! the best of Queens must see the fun; And lo! the Princesses so beauteous run; And Madam Schwellenberg came hobbling, too— Poor lady, losing in the race a shoe! But, in revenge-pursuit, the loss how slight! The world would lose a leg to please a spite. And now for peace did Seeker bawl aloud; And lo, peace came at once among the crowd. In courts of justice thus, to hush the hum, 'Silence!' the crier calls, and all is mum. 'Cooks, scullions, all, of high and low degree, Attend and learn our monarch's will from me. Our sovereign lord, the King, whose word is fate, Wills in his wisdom to see shav'd each pate: Then, gentlemen, pray take your chairs at once; And let each barber fall upon his sconce.' Thus thunder'd Secker, with a Mars-like face, And struck dire terror through the roasting race. Thus roar'd Achilles, 'mid the martial fray, When ev'ry frighted Trojan ran away. Calm was the crowd when thus the King of isles, Firm for the shave, but yet with kingly smiles: 'You must be shav'd—you shall—you must, indeed. No, no—I shan't let slip a single head. A very filthy, nasty, dirty trick: The thought on't turns my stomach—makes me sick. Louse, louse—a nasty thing—a louse I hate: No, no—I'll have no more upon my plate. One is sufficient—yes, yes—quite a store: I'll have no more—no more—I'll have no more.' Thus spake the King, like ev'ry King who gives To trifles lustre that for ever lives. Thus stinking vapours from the oozy pool, Of cats and kittens, dogs and puppies full, Bright sol sublimes, and gives them golden wings, The cloud on which some say the cherub sings.
PETER'S PENSION.
A SOLEMN EPISTLE TO A SUBLIME PERSONAGE.
Non possum tecum vivere, nec sine te.
Nebuchadnezzar, sir, the King, As sacred hist'ries sweetly sing, Was on all fours turn'd out to grass, Just like a horse, or mule, or ass. Heav'ns! what a fall from kingly glory! I hope it will not so turn out That we shall have (to make a pout) A second part of the old story!
This pension was well meant, O glorious King! And for the bard a very pretty thing; But let me, sir, refuse it, I implore! I ought not to be rich whilst you are poor.
No, sir, I cannot be your humble hack; I fear your Majesty would break my back.
A great deal, my dear liege, depends On having clever bards for friends. What had Achilles been without his Homer? A tailor, woollen-draper, or a comber! In poetry's rich grass how virtues thrive! Some when put in, so lean, seem scarce alive, And yet so speedily a bulk obtain, That e'en their owners know them not again.
PETER'S PENSION.
Could you, indeed, have gain'd my muse of fire, Great would your luck have been, indeed, great sire! Then had I prais'd your nobleness of spirit! Then had I boasted that myself, Hight Peter, was the first blest, tuneful elf You ever gave a farthing to for merit.