Porkopolis

St. Anthony and his Pig. A Cantata

• Recitative
•  
• LET clownish Cymon, in fond rustic strains,
• To lovely Iphigene declare his pains;
• Let tink’ring Tom for dustcart Sylvia pine,
• I sing St. Anthony and his fav’rite swine:
• Who, strange to tell, like you and I could speak,
• When other grov’ling pigs could only squeak.
• But when, or how, this wonder came to pass,
• Remains unnoticed by the scribbling class:
• Let it suffice, as oft he did caress her,
• Thus, like a lovesick swain, he would address her.

• Air
•  
• O my pretty piggy–wiggy,
• More sweet than is the figgy,
• That grows on yonder twiggy,
• Or sugar candy;
• My love for thee surpasses
• All that which pretty lasses
• Have for their looking–glasses,
• Or Tristram Shandy.

• Recitative
•  
• With little doting eyes, and ears upright,
• To all he says she listens with delight:
• Then, like the sluggish ass in scripture told,
• In grunting accent did her mind unfold.

• Air
•  
• How shall I my thanks declare, sir,
• In a learned genteel air, sir?
• I the court have never seen,
• Or at boarding–school have been;
•  
• Nor a singer am, you know, sir,
• To delight like Beard and Lowe, sir;
• But since I must play my part,
• Thank you, sir, with all my heart.

• Recitative
•  
• The hoary dotard gazes on her charms,
• And fondly clasps her in his withered arms;
• Then gently stroking first her bristled hide,
• Smacked her soft balmy snout, and thus replied.

• Air
•  
• Let sordid mortals toil all day,
• For gold and silver search and dig;
• A greater treasure I enjoy
• In this, my charming talking pig.
•  
• Though mighty monarchs on their thrones
• In pride and state look fierce and big,
• They are not so content and blessed
• As is old Tony with his pig.
•  
• I neither care who’s in or out,
• Whether Tory, whether Whig,
• I love my country, King and Queen,
• But best of all I love my pig.