What titled*Jauncys, Gales and Billops Lord Brush, Lord Wilkins, and Lord
[Phillips;
In wide-sleev'd pomp of godly guise,
What solemn rows of Bishops rise!
Aloft a Cardinal's hat is spread
O'er punster + Cooper's rev'rend head
In Vardell, that poetic zealot,
I view a lawn bedizen'd prelate !
While mitres fall, as 'tis their duty,
On heads of Chandler and Auchmuty!
Knights, viscounts, barons, shall ye
[meet,
As thick as pavements in the street!
Ev'n I perhaps, Heav'n speed my claim,
Shall fix a Sir before my name.
For titles all our foreheads ache;
For what blest changes can they make!
* Members of the ministerial majority in the New-York assembly; Wilkins, a noted writer.
+ President Cooper, a notorious punster: Vardell, author of some poetical satires on the sons of liberty in New-York and royal professor in King's college; Chandler and Auchmuty, High-church and Tory-writers of the clerical order.
Place rev'rence, grace, and excellence Where neither claim'd the least pre
[tence: Transform by patent's magic words Men, likest devils, into Lords ; Whence commoners, to peer translat
Are justly said to be created!
Now where commissioners ye saw,
Shall boards of noble deal you law!
Long rob'd comptrollers judge your
[rights,
And tide-waiters start up in knights!
While Whigs, subdued in slavish awe,
Our wood shall hew, our water draw,
And bless that mildness, when past hope,
Which sav'd their necks from noose of
[rope,
For as to gain assistance we
Design their negroes to set free;
For Whigs, when we enough shall bang
[em, Perhaps 'tis better not to hang 'em; Except their chiefs; the vulgar knaves Will do more good preserv'd for slaves." "Tis well," Honorius cried, " your [scheme
Has painted out a pretty dream.
We can't confute your second sight;
We shall be slaves and you a knight;
These things must come; but I divine
They'll come not in your day, or mine.
But O! my friends, my brethren hear,
And turn for once th' attentive ear.
Ye see how prompt to aid our woes,
The tender mercies of our foes;
Ye see with what unvaried rancour
Still for our blood their minions hanker,
Nor ought can sate their mad ambition,
From us, but death, or worse, submis-
Shall these then riot in our spoil,
Reap the glad harvest of our toil,
Rise from their country's ruin proud,
And roll their chariot-wheels in blood?
And can ye sleep while high outspread
Hangs desolation o'er your head?
See Gage, with inauspicious star,
Has op'd the gates of civil war ;
When streams of gore from freemen
[slain,
Encrimson'd Concord's fatal plain ;
Whose warning voice, with awful sound,,
Still cries like Abel's, from the gyfield,
And Heav'n attentive to its callff wield;
Shall doom the proud oppres
"Rise then, ere run swift surprise,
To victory, to vengence rise!
Hark! how the distant din alarms!
The echoing trumpet breathes, To arms!
From provinces, remote afar,
The sons of glory rouse to war;
'Tis Freedom calls; th' enraptur'd
The Apalachian hills rebound;
The Georgian shores her voice shall hear,
And start from lethargies of fear.
From the parch'd zone, with glowing ray,
Where pours the sun intenser day,
To shores where icy waters roll,
And tremble to the dusky pole,
Inspir'd by Freedom's heav'nly charms,
United nations wake to arms.
The star of conquest lights their way,
And guides their vengeance on their
[prey.Yes, though tyrannic force oppose, Still shall they triumph o'er their foes, Till Heav'n the happy land shall bless, With safety, liberty, and peace.
nd ye, whose souls of dastard [mould,
le brav'ry of the bold;
Has painter country who pretend,
Yet want all spirit to defend ;
Who feel your fancies so prolific,
Engend'ring vision'd whims terrific,
O'er-run with horrors of coercion,
Fire, blood, and thunder in reversion,
King's standards, pill'ries, confiscations.
And Gage's scare-crow proclamations,
With all the trumpery of fear;
Hear bullets whizzing in your rear;
Who scarce could rouse, if caught in
Presence of mind to run away;
See nought but halters rise to view
In all your dreams (and dreams are
And while these phantoms haunt your
Bow down the willing neck to chains. Heav'ns are ye sons of sires so [great,
Immortal in the fields of fate.
Who brav'd all deaths by land or sea,
Who bled, who conquer'd to be free!
Hence! coward souls, the worst disgrace
Of our forefathers, valiant race;
Hie homeward from the glorious field;
There turn the wheel, the distaff wield;
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