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1752–1832

SALEM.

Philip Morin Freneau

Last week we heard a king's man say, Do tell me where is Botany Bay? There are, quoth he, a meddling few, That shall go there — and we know who.

This Botany Bay is in an isle Removed from us twelve thousand mile, There rogues are banish'd, to atone For roguish things in England done.

Ye vultures, here on sufferance fed, Who curse the hand that gives you bread, Recall your threats, or, by the way, You'll find us act a serious play.

The haughty prince that England owns, To make more room for royal sons, Has given the hint, I would suspect — And are you one of his Elect?

Ye busy tribe, of harpy face, In search of power, in search of place, Ye rancorous hearts, who build your all On royal wrongs and freedom's fall,

This have we seen, and well we know, Each son of freedom is your foe, And these you would, unheard, convey To places worse than Botany Bay.

Be cautious how you talk so loud — Above your heads there hangs a cloud, That, bursting with explosion vast, May scatter vengeance in its blast;

And send you all, on th’ devil's dray, A longer road than — Botany Bay. Another threat alarm'd us much — ( Indeed, we hourly meet with such ) —

A cockney said, but spoke it low, For fear the street his mind should know: “And is there no sedition act? ( “‘ Tis almost time to doubt the fact,)

“By which this gabbling crew are bound “The nearest way to Nootka Sound?” Can you but smile!— who would have thought That they who writ, who march'd, who fought

For many a year, and little got But liberty, and dearly bought Must now away With half their pay,

And seek on ocean's utmost bound Their chance to starve at Nootka Sound! This Nootka Sound, so far remote, Would make us sing a serious note,

If it be true what travellers tell That there a race of natives dwell Who, when they would their brethren treat And give them a regale of meat

Unchain their prisoners from the den, And scrape the bones of bearded men. God save us from so hard a fate! As to be spitted, soon or late;

It is a lot that few admire — So let us for a while retire; And live to see some traitors drown'd I’ the deepest swash of Nootka Sound.

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SALEM. · Philip Morin Freneau · Poetry Cove