PAGE The Frost look'd forth one still clear night, . The hollow winds begin to blow, The mountain and the squirrel, The night was dark, and drear the heath, • 400 394 435 443 There are fools of pretension and fools of pretence, 276 445 There lived a sage in days of yore, 295 There lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore, 88 308 They look'd so alike as they sat at their work, They may talk of love in a cottage, This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, 'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare, Three sightless inmates of the sky, 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, To Lake Aghmoogenegamook, 170 422 76 323 To Printing-house Square, at close of day, Touch once more a sober measure, and let punch and tears be shed, To weave a culinary clue, To you, my purse, and to none other wight, 'Twas late, and the gay company was gone, Twenty quarts of real Nantz, Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, We are two travellers, Roger and I, Weep for the fate of Sergeant Thin, What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, When chapman billies leave the street, When Faustus, at first, did his printing begin, Who has e'er been at Paris must needs know the Greve, Why call the miser miserable? Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Ye sons of the platter, give car, The Book of Humorous Poetry. TO MY EMPTY PURSE. CHAUCER. To you, my purse, and to none other wight, I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy cheer; For which unto your mercy thus I cry, Now, vouchsafe this day or it be night, Now purse, thou art to me my live's light, A Out of this town help me by your might, THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. PETER PINDAR. Dr. John Wolcot, better known by his nom de plume Peter Pindar, an excellent and voluminous writer of humorous and satirical poetry, was born at Dodbrooke, Devonshire, in 1738. He obtained the degree of M.D. from the University of Aberdeen in 1767, and immediately afterwards he accompanied Sir William Trelawney, who had been appointed governor of the island, to Jamaica. He returned to England and settled in Cornwall, where he discovered and drew from obscurity the painter Opie, with whom he removed to London in 1780. On arriving in the metropolis he devoted himself to literature; and soon became conspicuous by his political satires and humorous effusions, which, published at short intervals, speedily became highly popular. In the decline of life he lost his sight, and he died in 1819. Many of the writings of Dr. Wolcot are of a personal and ephemeral nature, and a few are marred by a coarseness which renders them unfit for reproduction in the present day; but a great portion of them, a few of which are introduced in the present volume, are distinguished by a raciness of humour, and a freshness and vivacity of style, which has been often imitated, but very rarely equalled. A BRACE of sinners, for no good, Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, The priest had order'd peas into their shoes: A nostrum, famous in old Popish times, For purifying souls that stunk with crimes; That Popish parsons for its power exalt, The knaves set off on the same day, But very different was their speed, I wot: One of the sinners gallop'd on, Light as a bullet from a gun ; The other limp'd as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon-peccavi cried-- Made fit with saints above to live for ever. In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother-rogue about half way, Hobbling with outstretch'd hams and bended knees, His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet. |