PRINCE WILLIAM HENRY'S SOLILOQUY

People are mad thus to adore the Dauphin —

Heaven grant the brat may soon be in his coffin —

The honours here to this young Frenchman shown,

Of right should be Prince George's, or my own;

And all those wreathes that bloom on Louis now,

Should hang, unfading, on my father's brow.

To these far shores with longing hopes I came,

( By birth a Briton, not unknown to fame )

Pleasures to share that loyalty imparts,

Subdue the rebels, and regain their hearts.

Weak, stupid expectation — all is done!

Few are the prayers that rise for George's son;

Nought through the waste of these wide realms I trace,

But rage, contempt, and curses on our race,

Hosts with their chiefs by bold usurpers won,

And not a blessing left for George's son!

Here on these isles ( my terrors not a few )

I walk attended by the Tory crew:

These from the first have done their best to please,

But who would herd with sycophants like these?

This exiled race, who their lost shores bemoan,

Would bow to Satan, if he held our throne —

Rul'd by their fears — and what is meaner far,

Have worshipp'd William only for his star!

To touch my hand their thronging thousands strove,

And tir'd my patience with unceasing love —

In fame's fair annals told me I should live,

But they, poor creatures, had no fame to give:

Must Digby's royal pupil walk the streets,

And smile on every ruffian that he meets;

Or teach them, as he has done — he knows when —

That kings and princes are no more than men?

Must I alas disclose, to our disgrace,

That Britain is too small for George's race?

Here in the west, where all did once obey,

Three islands only, now, confess our sway;

And in the east we have not much to boast,

For Hyder Ali drives us from the coast:

Yield, rebels, yield — or I must go once more

Back to the white cliffs of my native shore;

( Where, in process of time, shall go sir Guy,

And where sir Harry has returned to sigh,

Whose hands grew weak when things began to cross,

Nor made one effort to retrieve our loss )

Oatmeal and Scottish kale pots round me rise,

And Hanoverian turnips greet mine eyes;—

Welch goats and naked rocks my bosom swell,

And Teague! dear Teague!— to thee I bid farewell —

Curse on the Dauphin and his friends, I say,

He steals our honours and our rights away.

Digby — our anchors!— weigh them to the bow,

And eastward through the wild waves let us plow:

Such dire resentments in my bosom burn,

That to these shores I never will return,

‘ Till fruits and flowers on Zembla's coast are known,

And seas congeal beneath the torrid zone.