My lords, I can hardly from weeping refrain, When I think of this year and its cursed campaign; But still it is folly to whine and to grieve, For things will yet alter, I hope and believe.
Of the four southern States we again are bereav'd, They were just in our grasp ( or I'm sadly deceiv'd ): There are wizards and witches that dwell in those lands, For the moment we gain them, they slip from our hands.
Our prospects at present most gloomy appear; Cornwallis returns with a flea in his ear, Sir Henry is sick of his station we know — And Amherst, though press'd, is unwilling to go.
The Herothat steer'd for the cape of Good Hope With Monsieur Suffrein was unable to cope — Many months are elaps'd, yet his task is to do — To conquer the cape, and to conquer Peru:
When his squadron at Portsmouth he went to equip He promis'd great things from his fifty-gun ship; But let him alone — while he knows which is which, He'll not be so ready “to die in a ditch.”
This session, I thought to have told you thus much, “A treaty concluded, and peace with the Dutch” — But as stubborn as ever, they vapour and brag, And sail by my nose with the Prussian flag.
The empress refuses to join on our side, As yet with the Indians we're only ally'd: ( Though such an alliance is rather improper, For we English are white, but their colour is copper. )
The Irish, I fear, have some mischief in view; They ever have been a most troublesome crew — If a truce or a treaty hereafter be made, They shall pay very dear for their present free trade.
Dame Fortune, I think, has our standards forsaken, For Tobago, they say, by Frenchmen is taken; Minorca's besieg'd — and as for Gibraltar, By Jove, if it's taken I'll take to the halter.
It makes me so wroth, I could scold like Xantippe When I think of our losses along Mississippi — And see in the Indies that horrible Hyder, His conquests extending still wider and wider.
‘ Twixt Washington, Hyder, Don Galvez, De Grasse, By my soul we are brought to a very fine pass — When we've reason to hope new battles are won, A packet arrives — and an army's undone!—
In the midst of this scene of dismay and distress, What is best to be done, is not easy to guess, For things may go wrong though we plan them aright, And blows they must look for, whose trade is to fight.
In regard to the rebels, it is my decree That dependent on Britain they ever shall be; Or I've captains and hosts that will fly at my nod And slaughter them all — by the blessing of God.
But if they succeed, as they're likely to do, Our neighbours must part with their colonies too: Let them laugh and be merry, and make us their jest, When La Plata revolts, we shall laugh with the rest —
‘ Tis true that the journey to castle St. Juan Was a project that brought the projectors to ruin; But still, my dear lords, I would have you reflect, Who nothing do venture can nothing expect.
If the Commons agree to afford me new treasures, My sentence once more is for vigorous measures: Accustom'd so long to head winds and bad weather, Let us conquer or go to the devil together.
Cookies on Poetry Cove