Great things have pass'd the last revolving year; France on a curious jaunt has seen her king go,— Hush'd are the growlings of the Russian bear, Rebellion has broke loose in St. Domingo —
Sorry we are that Pompeys, Caesars, Catos Are mostly found with Negroes and Mulattoes. Discord, we think, must always be the lot Of this poor world — nor is that discord vain,
Since, if these feuds and fisty-cuffs were not, Full many an honest Type would starve — that's plain; Wars are their gain, whatever cause is found — Empires — or Cats-skins brought from Nootka-sound.
The Turks, poor fellows! have been sadly baisted — And many a Christian despot stands, contriving Who next shall bleed — what country next be wasted — This is the trade by which they get their living:
From Prussian Frederick, this the general plan To Empress Kate — that burns the Rights of Man, The Pope ( at Rome ) is in a sweat, they tell us; Of freedom's pipe he cannot bear the music,
And worst of all when Frenchmen blow the bellows, Enough almost ( he thinks ) to make a Jew sick: His Priesthood too, black, yellow, white, and grey, All think it best to keep — the good old way.
Britain, ( fame whispers ) has unrigg'd her fleet — Now tell us what the world will do for thunder?— Battles, fire, murder, maiming, and defeat Are at an end when Englishmen knock under:
Sulphur will now in harmless squibs be spent, Lightning will fall — full twenty five per cent.
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