By PHILIP FRENEAU.
[In the year 1781, Prince William Henry (afterward William IV.), third son of George III., came to New York as a midshipman, accompanied by Admiral Digby. The tory authorities of the city overwhelmed the boy—he was just sixteen years old—with adulation, recording it as their conviction that his gracious presence in the country would shame the patriots out of their rebellion and win them to submission and loyalty.—Editor.]
Prince William, of the Brunswick race,To witness George's sad disgraceThe royal lad came over,Rebels to kill, by right divine—Derived from that industrious line,The beggars of Hanover.So many chiefs got broken patesIn vanquishing the rebel states,So many nobles fell,That George the Third in passion cried:"Our royal blood must now be tried;'Tis that must break the spell;"To you [the fat pot-valiant swainTo Digby said], dear friend of mine,To you I trust my boy;The rebel tribes shall quake with fears,Rebellion die when he appears,My tories leap with joy."So said, so done—the lad was sent,But never reached the continent,An island held him fast—Yet there his friends danced rigadoons,The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes,"Prince William's come at last!""Prince William's come!"—the Briton cried—"Our labors now will be repaid—Dominion be restored—Our monarch is in William seen,He is the image of our queen,Let William be adored!"The tories came with long address,With poems groaned the royal press,And all in William's praise—The youth, astonished, looked aboutTo find their vast dominions out,Then answered in amaze:"Where all your vast domain can be,Friends, for my soul I cannot see;'Tis but an empty name;Three wasted islands and a townIn rubbish buried—half burnt down,Is all that we can claim;"I am of royal birth, 'tis true,But what, my sons, can princes do,No armies to command?Cornwallis conquered and distrest—Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest—I curse—and quit the land."
Prince William, of the Brunswick race,To witness George's sad disgraceThe royal lad came over,Rebels to kill, by right divine—Derived from that industrious line,The beggars of Hanover.
So many chiefs got broken patesIn vanquishing the rebel states,So many nobles fell,That George the Third in passion cried:"Our royal blood must now be tried;'Tis that must break the spell;
"To you [the fat pot-valiant swainTo Digby said], dear friend of mine,To you I trust my boy;The rebel tribes shall quake with fears,Rebellion die when he appears,My tories leap with joy."
So said, so done—the lad was sent,But never reached the continent,An island held him fast—Yet there his friends danced rigadoons,The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes,"Prince William's come at last!"
"Prince William's come!"—the Briton cried—"Our labors now will be repaid—Dominion be restored—Our monarch is in William seen,He is the image of our queen,Let William be adored!"
The tories came with long address,With poems groaned the royal press,And all in William's praise—The youth, astonished, looked aboutTo find their vast dominions out,Then answered in amaze:
"Where all your vast domain can be,Friends, for my soul I cannot see;'Tis but an empty name;Three wasted islands and a townIn rubbish buried—half burnt down,Is all that we can claim;
"I am of royal birth, 'tis true,But what, my sons, can princes do,No armies to command?Cornwallis conquered and distrest—Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest—I curse—and quit the land."