ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Dr. John Wolcot
Edmund, "To Peter Pindar" General Advertiser (19 December 1786).
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
1786: Dr. John Wolcot
Lo! I, who late a Limb of Law,
Tortured sound acts to find a flaw,
And stiled tautology good sense,
Sticking at nothing to gain pence:
Now first essay, in doggrel rhime,
To chaunt the praise of mock sublime;
And sing the louse of Peter's head,
Much better taught I ween than fed!
Peter, whose fame is Pindar's bays,
Hangman of odes, and eke R.A.'s:
Peter, whose stile so quaint, delights;
Herald of Nicholsonian Knights;
Yet master of the softer song,
Whene'er he roves soft themes among.
Do, Peter, scratch again thy Crown,
Another louse may tumble down;
And, Peter, lice are no bad things,
When they become allied to Kings;
As thou to thy great comfort knew,
When thou gave Kearsley thine to sew,
Or hast thou, oh! disaster big,
Doft all thy hair, and ta'en a wig;
Or, tired with wallowing in the dirt,
Oh, hast thou Peter, washed thy shirt!
Thy lousy brethren of Grubb-street,
Who nightly at the Critic meet,
Swear that Dame Fortune is a bitch,
Has spoil'd thy muse, and made thee rich:
Nay, have resolv'd, if you refuse
Again to whip your skittish muse,
That they, I kindly let you know it,
Will strike you off their list as poet.