SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND NINETY-ONE

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.