Come, 'mongst ourselves we'll e'en speak out the truth.Can you suppose there yet is such a dupeAs still believes that wretch an honest man?The later strokes of his serpentine brainOutvie the arts of Machiavel himself,His Borgian model here is realiz'dAnd the stale tricks of politicians play'dBeneath a vizard fair————Drawn from the heav'nly formOf blest religion weeping o'er the landFor virtue fall'n, and for freedom lost.
Come, 'mongst ourselves we'll e'en speak out the truth.Can you suppose there yet is such a dupeAs still believes that wretch an honest man?The later strokes of his serpentine brainOutvie the arts of Machiavel himself,His Borgian model here is realiz'dAnd the stale tricks of politicians play'dBeneath a vizard fair————Drawn from the heav'nly formOf blest religion weeping o'er the landFor virtue fall'n, and for freedom lost.
Beau Trumps.
I think with you————unparalleled his effront'ry,When by chican'ry and specious art,'Midst the distress in which he'd brought the city,He found a few (by artifice and cunning,By much industry of his wily friendThe false Philanthrop——sly undermining tool,Who with the Syren's voice——Deals daily round the poison of his tongue)To speak him fair—and overlook his guilt.They by reiterated promise madeTo stand his friend at Britain's mighty court,And vindicate his native injur'd land,Lent him their names to sanctify his deeds.But mark the traitor——his high crimes gloss'd o'erConceals the tender feelings of the man,The social ties that bind the human heart;He strikes a bargain with his country's foes,And joins to wrap America in flames.Yet with feign'd pity, and Satanic grin,As if more deep to fix the keen insult,Or make his life a farce still more complete,He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic,And with a phiz of Crocodilian stamp,Can weep, and wreathe, still hoping to deceive,He cries the gath'ring clouds hang thick about her,But laughs within——then sobs————Alas! my country?
I think with you————unparalleled his effront'ry,When by chican'ry and specious art,'Midst the distress in which he'd brought the city,He found a few (by artifice and cunning,By much industry of his wily friendThe false Philanthrop——sly undermining tool,Who with the Syren's voice——Deals daily round the poison of his tongue)To speak him fair—and overlook his guilt.They by reiterated promise madeTo stand his friend at Britain's mighty court,And vindicate his native injur'd land,Lent him their names to sanctify his deeds.But mark the traitor——his high crimes gloss'd o'erConceals the tender feelings of the man,The social ties that bind the human heart;He strikes a bargain with his country's foes,And joins to wrap America in flames.Yet with feign'd pity, and Satanic grin,As if more deep to fix the keen insult,Or make his life a farce still more complete,He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic,And with a phiz of Crocodilian stamp,Can weep, and wreathe, still hoping to deceive,He cries the gath'ring clouds hang thick about her,But laughs within——then sobs————Alas! my country?
Hum Humbug.
Why so severe, or why exclaim at all,Against the man who made thee what thou art?
Why so severe, or why exclaim at all,Against the man who made thee what thou art?
Beau Trumps.
I know his guilt,—I ever knew the man,Thy father knew him e'er we trod the stage;I only speak to such as know him well;Abroad I tell the world he is a saint,But as for int'rest I betray'd my ownWith the same views, I rank'd among his friends:But my ambition sighs for something more.What merits has Sir Sparrow of his own,And yet a feather graces the fool's cap:Which did he wear for what himself achiev'd,'Twould stamp some honour on his latest heir——But I'll suspend my murm'ring care awhile;Come, t' other glass——and try our luck at Loo,And if before the dawn your gold I win,Or e'er bright Phœbus does his course begin,The eastern breeze from Britain's hostile shoreShould waft her lofty floating towers o'er,Whose waving pendants sweep the wat'ry main,Dip their proud beaks and dance towards the plain,The destin'd plains of slaughter and distress,Laden with troops from Hanover and Hess,It would invigorate my sinking soul,For then the continent we might control;Not all the millions that she vainly boastsCan cope with Veteran Barbarian hosts;——But the brave sons of Albion's warlike race,Their arms, and honours, never can disgrace,Or draw their swords in such a hated cause,In blood to seal a N——'s oppressive laws,They'll spurn the service;——Britons must recoil,And shew themselves the natives of an isleWho sought for freedom, in the worst of timesProduc'd her Hampdens, Fairfaxes, and Pyms.But if by carnage we should win the game,Perhaps by my abilities and fame:I might attain a splendid glitt'ring car,And mount aloft, and sail in liquid air.Like Phaëton, I'd then out-strip the wind,And leave my low competitors behind.
I know his guilt,—I ever knew the man,Thy father knew him e'er we trod the stage;I only speak to such as know him well;Abroad I tell the world he is a saint,But as for int'rest I betray'd my ownWith the same views, I rank'd among his friends:But my ambition sighs for something more.What merits has Sir Sparrow of his own,And yet a feather graces the fool's cap:Which did he wear for what himself achiev'd,'Twould stamp some honour on his latest heir——But I'll suspend my murm'ring care awhile;Come, t' other glass——and try our luck at Loo,And if before the dawn your gold I win,Or e'er bright Phœbus does his course begin,The eastern breeze from Britain's hostile shoreShould waft her lofty floating towers o'er,Whose waving pendants sweep the wat'ry main,Dip their proud beaks and dance towards the plain,The destin'd plains of slaughter and distress,Laden with troops from Hanover and Hess,It would invigorate my sinking soul,For then the continent we might control;Not all the millions that she vainly boastsCan cope with Veteran Barbarian hosts;——But the brave sons of Albion's warlike race,Their arms, and honours, never can disgrace,Or draw their swords in such a hated cause,In blood to seal a N——'s oppressive laws,They'll spurn the service;——Britons must recoil,And shew themselves the natives of an isleWho sought for freedom, in the worst of timesProduc'd her Hampdens, Fairfaxes, and Pyms.But if by carnage we should win the game,Perhaps by my abilities and fame:I might attain a splendid glitt'ring car,And mount aloft, and sail in liquid air.Like Phaëton, I'd then out-strip the wind,And leave my low competitors behind.
Finis.