from The Bijou Literary Annual, 1828
author: By a Tyro
source date: 1828
edition published: 20170606
availability: Freely available via a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License

The Bijou;
or Annual of Literature and the Arts

compiled by William Fraser
William Pickering London
1828
pp. 176-90

An Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esquire

By a Tyro

BEFORE I yet assume the band,
Or dare to tread on lawyer- land,
(A rich champaign that's never bleak
Nor bare to those who boldly speak;
Where neither cold, nor rain, nor drought
Can ever turn the crops to nought:) —
Before I venture on a brief, —
Before I hang a single theif, —
Or plunge my goose- quill into ink, —
Or purse my mouth and seem to think,
While clients stare, and rustics wonder,
Like young pigs when they shrink from thunder, —
I'll call on thee, renowned wig!
(In self- importance justly big)
Beneath whose ample curls men sit,
Disfigured by thy weight of wit: —
(For thou still dost the lawyer fire,
As Phoebus' rays bards' brains inspire;
Making mere man thrice vast and learn'd,
Like water into vapour turned.) —

— Spirit of wisdom, cramped and curled!
Type of the thoughts that fill the world!
(Tortured to every quirk and shift
That lawyers into fortune lift:)
What garland, wrought of barren bays? —
What "order," rich with martial rays? —
What knightly cross, or riband red?
What key,— — what collar ever shed
Such honours on man's honoured head?
Vittoria's splendours! — what are they
To Eldon's powder waxing grey?
What black King Charles's black peruke?
What Villers' locks, 'though twice a duke'?
What Malborough's waggon- load of hair?
Or Lely's loves all frizz'd and fair? —

And thou — Greatwig! — white — powdered — flowing
O'er eyebrows knit and foreheads knowing,
Upon what skull, on law intent,
Did'st perch, — thou, King of wigs! — content,
When wisest BELL, (so keen and kind)
Left law but left no peer behind, —
Not one so sage, and yet so meek,
Of all the tribes that love to speak?
Before what jaded judge, (who sits,
And sighs, and nods, and yawns by fits,)
Dost thou now shake thy Gorgon terrors,
Doubling some damned defendant's errors?

Or, — after P — 's judicial fury,
Dost smooth some forty- shilling jury?
Casting thy perfumes in their noses
The more thy brother wig opposes?
Or dost thou on the bench inhabit,
Where L — looks smug and — says 'D — it?'
From little snarling — — 's crown
Fling'st thou thy odours half- way down
His pigmy shape? — From Pr — st — n's head,
Where deep black- lettered law was bred,
And nursed through many a patient night
Till Lincolns Inn was filled with light?
Dwell'st thou with elder S — nd — rs, (well
Mayst thou with him contented dwell, —
A lawyer sound as ever saw
When sense should sway the doubtful law)?
Hang'st thou on L — nd — st's lordly cheek?
Dost thou abide with W — lde, or P — ke,
Both serjeants firm and fit to battle
A cause through four old women's tattle?
Or hidest thou S — t's pompous air?
Or M — t's visage hard and square?
Or A — t's look 'tween scowl and smile?
Or — 's face all drenched in guile?
Or H — ld's bold brow? or B — s — l's grace,
Handsomest of the lawyer race?—
Speak! — if thou still canst teach the tongue
(That thing on golden hinges hung)
To speak — I'll secret be — Declare,
From all thy thousand mouths of hair
If any barrister or bencher
Still from thy bounty fills his trencher?

If, on some huge block's head and shoulders,
Thou hang'st, the laugh of all beholders,
Forc'd, when thou canst inspire no more,
To hear the trash thou scorn'dst before,
Quick! leave the block (the head) — whose hum
Comes out as from some empty drum,
Which one who should be beaten beats, —
Where noisy nonsense, nonsense meets, —
Where blunders bump 'midst lawyer's quirks, —
And not one ounce of wisdom lurks:
Quick, leave the lackwit's skull all free,
And send the rogue to — Coventry [[Note to "An Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esq.":]Not the town, (which would be of little service to a dunce) but a learned and ingenious conveyancer of that name. [Fraser or Author.]].

Or, — are thou still, by human head,
O peerless wig! untenanted?
Hanging somewhere 'tween sea and sky,
Like prophets' coffin lone and high? —
If so, and there's a curl of hair,
A bunch — a look — a lock to spare,
Yield it to me, — to me, who left
(Like widow of her son bereft)
For aye, the sweet muse Poesy,
And gave my life to law and thee!

And must I see the poet's pages
No more? — ne'er dream of bright bright-ages,
When inspiration, like a sun,
Came down and deathless deed were done?
Farewell, then — (in Sir Blackstone's vein,
I'll bid the muse farewell again) —
Farewell, then, to the dangerous muse,
Whom lawyers love yet aye abuse!
Farewell unto the poets crowned!
Farewell, where laurel leaves abound, —
Thessalian Pindus! — Tempe's plains! —
Parnassus, where Apollo reigns!
And farewell O Castalian river!
Upon whose fringed banks for ever
Lie clustering still the dark-eyed daughters,
Singing to all thy running waters
Strange music like the Sybil's spell, —
Farewell, — to all and each — Farewell!