John Wolcot

John Wolcot Poems

John Wolcot Biography

John Wolcot (9 May 1738 - 14 January 1819), satirist, born in Dodbrooke, near Kingsbridge in Devon, was educated by an uncle, and studied medicine. In 1767 he went as physician to Sir William Trelawny, Governor of Jamaica, and whom he induced to present him to a Church in the island then vacant, and was ordained in 1769. Sir William dying in 1772, Wolcot came home and, abandoning the Church, resumed his medical character, and settled in practice at Truro, where he discovered the talents of John Opie, and assisted him. In 1780, Wolcot went to London and commenced writing satires. The first objects of his attentions were the members of the Royal Academy, and these attempts being well received, he soon began to fly at higher game, the King and Queen being the most frequent marks for his satirical shafts. In 1786 appeared The Lousiad, a Heroi-Comic Poem, taking its name from a legend that a louse had once appeared on the King's dinner plate. Other objects of his attack were Boswell, the biographer of Samuel Johnson, James Bruce, the Abyssinian traveller, Hannah More, former bluestocking and playwright, and Bishop Porteus. Wolcot, who wrote under the nom-de-plume of "Peter Pindar", had a remarkable vein of humour and wit, which, while intensely comic to persons not involved, stung its subjects to the quick. He had likewise strong intelligence, and a power of coining effective phrases. In other kinds of composition, as in some ballads which he wrote, an unexpected touch of gentleness and even tenderness appears. Among these are The Beggar Man and Lord Gregory. Much that he wrote has now lost all interest owing to the circumstances referred to being forgotten, but enough still retains its peculiar relish to account for his contemporary reputation.)

The Best Poem Of John Wolcot

Hymn To The Guillotine

Daughter of Liberty! whose knife
So busy chops the threads of life,
And frees from cumbrous clay the spirit;
Ah! why alone shall Gallia feel
The beauties of thy pond'rous steel?
Why must not Britain mark thy merit?

Hark! 'tis the dungeon's groan I hear;
And lo, a squalid band appear,
With sallow cheek, and hollow eye!
Unwilling, lo, the neck they bend;
Yet, through thy pow'r, their terrors end,
And with their heads the sorrows fly.

O let us view thy lofty grace;
To Britons shew thy blushing face,
And bless Rebellion's life—tir'd train!
Joy to my soul! she's on her way,
Led by her dearest friends, Dismay,
Death, and the Devil, and Tom Paine!

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