By PHILIP FRENEAU.
(Written soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.)
Whena certain great King, whose initial is G.,Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea;When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble,You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble.But when a Petition he treads under feet,And sends over the ocean an army and fleet,When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage,Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes tocage;When that leader goes home, dejected and sad;You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.But when B. and C. with their armies are takenThis King will do well if he saves his own bacon:In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and twoA stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue;And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive,When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive.In the year eighty-three, the affair will be overAnd he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover;The face of the Lion will then become pale,He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail—O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore,From theStarsand theStripesyou will mercy implore,And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.—
Whena certain great King, whose initial is G.,Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea;When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble,You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble.
But when a Petition he treads under feet,And sends over the ocean an army and fleet,When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage,Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes tocage;When that leader goes home, dejected and sad;You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.
But when B. and C. with their armies are takenThis King will do well if he saves his own bacon:In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and twoA stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue;And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive,When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive.
In the year eighty-three, the affair will be overAnd he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover;The face of the Lion will then become pale,He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail—O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore,From theStarsand theStripesyou will mercy implore,And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.—