II.

Folks may think as they please, but to me it would seem, That our great men at home have done nothing but dream: Such trimming and twisting and shifting about, And some getting in, and others turned out;

And yet, with their bragging and looking so big, All they did was to dance a theatrical jig. Seven years now, and more, we have tried every plan, And are just as near conquering as when we began,

Great things were expected from Clinton and Howe, But what have they done, or where are they now? Sir Guy was sent over to kick up a dust, Who already prepares to return in disgust —

The object delusive we wish to attain Has been in our reach, and may be so again — But so oddly does heaven its bounties dispense, And has granted our king such a small share of sense

That, let Fortune favour or smile as she will, We are doomed to drive on, like a horse in a mill, And though we may seem to advance on our rout, ‘ Tis but to return to where we sate out.

From hence I infer ( by way of improvement ) That nothing is got by this circular movement; And I plainly perceive, from this fatal delay, We are going to ruin the round-about way!

Some nations, like ships, give up to the gale, And are hurried ashore with a full flowing sail; So Sweden submitted to absolute power, And freemen were changed to be slaves in an hour;

Thus Theodore soon from his grandeur came down, Forsaking his subjects and Corsican crown; But we —‘ tis our fate, without ally or friend, To go to perdition, close hauled to the wind.

The case is too plain, that if I stay here I have something to hope and something to fear: In regard to my carcase, I should n't mind that — I can say “I have lived,” and have grown very fat;

Have been in my day remarkable shifty, And soon, very soon, will be verging on fifty. ‘ Tis time for the state of the dead to prepare, ‘ Tis time to consider how things will go there;

Some few are admitted to Jupiter's hall, But the dungeons of Pluto are open to all — The day is approaching as fast as it can When Jemmy will be a mere moderate man,

Will sleep under ground both summer and winter, The hulk of a man, and the shell of a printer, And care not a farthing for George, or his line, What empires start up, or what kingdoms decline.

Our parson last Sunday brought tears from my eyes, When he told us of heaven, I thought of my lies — To his flock he described it, and laid it before‘ em, ( As if he had been in its Sanctum Sanctorum )

Recounted its beauties that never shall fade, And quoted John Bunyan to prove what he said; Debarred from the gate who the Truth should deny, Or “whosoe'er loveth or maketh a lie.”

Through the course of my life it has still been my lot In spite of myself, to say “things that are not.” And therefore suspect that upon my decease Not a poet will leave me to slumber in peace,

But at least once a week be-scribble the stone Where Jemmy, poor Jemmy, lies sleeping alone! Howe'er in the long run these matters may be, If the scripture is true, it has bad news for me —

And yet, when I come to examine the text, And the learned annotations that Poole has annexed, Throughout the black list of the people that sin I cannot once find that I'm mention'd therein;

Whoremongers, idolators, all are left out, And wizards and dogs ( which is proper, no doubt ) But he who says, I'm there, mistakes or forgets — It mentions no Printers of Royal Gazettes!

In truth, I have need of a mansion of rest, And here to remain might suit me the best — Philadelphia in some things would answer as well, ( Some Tories are there, and my papers might sell )

But then I should live amongst wrangling and strife, And be forced to say credo the rest of my life: For their sudden conversion I'm much at a loss — I am told that they bow to the wood of the cross,

And worship the reliques transported from Rome, St. Peter's toe-nails, and St. Anthony's comb.— If thus the true faith they no longer defend I scarcely can think where the madness will end —

If the greatest among them submit to the Pope, What reason have I for indulgence to hope? If the Congress themselves to the Chapel did pass, Ye may swear that poor Jemmy would have to sing mass.