So let us sing, Long live the King,
The Regent long live he;
And when again he gets a sprain,
May I be there to see.”
Wolcot’s sight began to fail, and in 1811 he was nearly blind, but he still contrived to continue his literary work almost until his death, which took place on 14th January 1819. By his express desire he was buried in St Paul’s Church, Covent Garden, by the side of the coffin which contained the mortal remains of Samuel Butler, of whom, perhaps, and not without some reason, he considered himself a humble disciple.
He was a very sane man, sensible of his limitations, and not given to value his work unduly. Indeed, in his first work, “The Epistle to Reviewers,” he stated the position to which he aspired:
“I am no cormorant for Fame, d’ye see;
I ask not all the laurel, but a sprig:
Then hear me, Guardian of the sacred Tree,
And stick a Leaf or two about my wig.”