ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Dr. John Wolcot
Anonymous, "Brother Paul to Peter Pindar" St. James's Chronicle (10 May 1788).
Dr. John Wolcot:
1776 ca.: A Lady of Truro
1786 ca.: Edmond Malone
1786: D-s Pallet
1786: R. S.
1786: A Lady
1787: G. B. R.
1787: H. D.
1788: A Loyal Subject
1789: Harriet Falconar
1789: William Hayley
1789: Mrs. Boys
1790: Isaac D'Israeli
1790: Rev. Andrew Macdonald
1792 ca.: George Reid
1794: Thomas James Mathias
1794: A. N.
1796: Robert Burns
1796: William Wordsworth
1796: Alexander Balfour
1799: Mary Robinson
1800: William Gifford
1800: George Reid
1800: Thomas Dermody
1801 ca.: William Jackson
1801: Alexander Thomson
1802: Anne Grant
1806: Rev. Lawrence Hynes Halloran
1806: Samuel Jackson Pratt
1810 ca.: Anonymous
1811: Henry Crabb Robinson
1812: A. K.
1814: Leigh Hunt
1814: Thomas Barnes
1815: William Henry Ireland
1816: X. X.
1818: Thomas Enort Smith
1819: John Taylor Esq.
1820: John Keats
1820 ca.: Anonymous
1824: John Taylor Esq.
1826: Rev. Richard Polwhele
1827: Robert Southey
1830: Richard Warner
1831: Rev. Richard Polwhele
1832: John Taylor Esq.
1848: Benjamin Disraeli
1850: John Britton
1852: William Jerdan
1858: Cyrus Redding
1882: Margaret Oliphant
1882: Epes Sargent
I've often heard my ancient Grandam say,
And thou hast heard the same, I make no Doubt,
That every yelping Cur will have his Day.
Thy Day, good Peter, now it seems, is out.
Art thou at last reduced — the Trick is stale—
To advertise, for Piracy, Reward?
Thus of thy Works to stimulate the Sale?
Thy Fate, poor Peter, sure is wond'rous hard!
There are for Poets various Ways to Fame,
From Flatt'ry some the gilded Laurels crop;
Satyr was thine, and Kings thy favourite Game,
But Cerberus, it seems, hath ta'en a Sop.
Where is thy Louse? — What leave him in the Lurch?
Scullions and Turnpits Darlings of the Muse?
But so thou whilom didst forsake the Church,
For Leisure Kings and Painters to abuse.
But art thou, Peter, proud that thou hast got
A Pension from the Court to make thee civil?
If thou hast any Spirit, not a Jot—
The fearful Indians pension thus the Devil.
Thou art not pension'd for thy Wit or Sense,
But Kings and Painters wish to live in Peace;
'Tis only meant to curb thy Impudence,
And that thy Billingsgate Abuse may cease.
Thomas — but I have never seen him mellow—
Thomas, the hackney'd Object of thy Fun,
They tell me, is an honest jovial Fellow:
What, to offend thee, hath good Thomas done?
I'll tell thee, Peter, Spite of all Pretense,
Thou persecut'st thy Brother Tom, good lack!
Not for his Want of Wit or Want of Sense,
But for thou envy'st him his Butt of Sack.
I think I know thee, Peter — Thou'rt a Thing,
That for a Guinea could be wondrous civil;
Would praise alike a Cobler or a King,
Or damn, for Gold, a God, or bless a Devil.
If thou art poor, there may be some Excuse.
Here — take these Pence to help thee on thy Way;
But let us have no more of thy Abuse:
Poor little Doggy thou hast had thy Day.