And damn it we'll swinge the poor people we warrant, Then some Patriots cry'd out, pray ye never descend, Protection we'll spread, So our friends from your power no mischief shall dread; Ye brave sons of Freedom then join hand in hand, Our toast let it be, May Britons be happy, united, and free; A New Broom sweeps clean. A NEW SONG. BY AN OLD BURGESS. Tune- -Bow, wow, wow. You Burgesses I pray attend and listen to the story, glory; No Broon can ever it exceed--no not throughout the nation, Far to be sure, 'tis to make pure a pretty Corporation. Sweep, sweep, sweep. This Broom compos'd of Birch so good, you seldum see its fellow : In colours fine, it now doth shine, as purple pink & yellow : 'Tis held by all, both great and small, so high in estimation, 'Tis to sweep neat a hall complete for a pretty Corporation. Sweep, sweep, sweep. There's Bull-neck brave he does command those within the hall, Sirs, Each at his nod, his scrape or stamp, upon their knees must fall, Sirs; Now who this Jack-a-dandy is, requires no explanation, The Freemen's rights, and Burgess' parts, he sweeps them altogether, Should this New Broom come in his hand, he'll sweep away for ever: Then spurn at those who do propose so great an innovasion, Don't fawn on those who do compose a pretty Corporation. Sweep, sweep, sweepi. Should the old Broom once more be sought, 'tis ready at your call, Sirs, To sweep away all filthiness that lurks within the hall, Sirs, When it you see once in the House reassume it's station, Twill sweep and rub, severely scrub a pretty Corporation. Sweep, sweep, sweep, With heart and hand let's drink success to the Old Broom for ever, A better Broom was never known in England, no, no never, For Church and King it always sweeps, so true 'tis to the nation, And once before it hath scrubb'd o'er a pretty Corporation. 1 THE FREEMAN'S TRIUMPH. Tune-"ANA CREON IN HEAVEN.” WHILE oppression's dire mandate is heard o'er the world, And pride's haughty minions together conspire, .` Whose shafts with revengeful malignance are hurl'd, To quench sacred Liberty's pure hallow'd fire: Shall men, free-born men, independent and great, Or serve, willing slaves of a land-holding tribe? Who giv'st to our sons the domain of the sea! While integrity holds its firm seat in our breast, Undaunted we'll prove that Electors are free! Can truth's sacred cause need coercion's rude sway? Are we Britons?-like Britons we'll nobly maintain Ah no! Public virtue is not yet extinct; It glows in our bosoms! it flows in our veins ! The TRIUMPH of FREEDOM, A PARODY. WHILE discord's dire mandate is heard in the land, While with rancorous hatred and malice they strive Shall men, free born men, independent and great Be depriv'd of their freedom?---the gift of the state ! Hear this ye Dissemblers---an Englishman's boast--- "That their Sons and their Sons' Sons will prove the deed's Are we Britons?, Like Britons we'll nobly maintain, Song in favor of MR. COKE. TUNE." Rule Britannia." Hail COKE! the man of fam'd renown, Yet COKE shall be our Parliament Man. CHORUS. True Blue, True Blue, the Order of the Day, No B-rch, and Sl-v-s, the People say. Mock Sons of Freedom, we make no doubt, Would put the Tories to the rout But we detest their roguish plan, For COKE shall be our Parliament Man. The Birchites now pretend to be Deluded Whigs they make their boast For we are loyal to a man, COKE is the Champion of our Cause, |