That Tune by tinkers sung, by coblers lov'd,
Which to the Cow* of old so fatal prov'd,
That from this world with joy she took her flight,
And bade her ancient friends a long Good Night;
Those who his Majesty of Mobs disown,
And seek that Holy Sovereign to dethrone,
When Grandsire ADAM's principles shall fail,
And flesh and blood, from keeping long, grow stale,
May sing the funeral dirge in mournful stave,
And get old Burkitt† too to dig the grave.
Rejoice! ye Pokahontian Tribes rejoice!
In loud Te Deums raise your clam'rous voice!
Proclaim from Anarchy what blessings spring!
"Shall CLINTON reign and HENRICO not sing?"
Yes, men of Belial! had ye sense to feel,
You'd find Regeneration at your heel,
And not far distant is the awful day
When your base clan a reckoning dire shall pay,
When old Virginia shall resume the reins,
And yield a rich reward for all your mighty pains.
Then shall your dress, your mimickry of state,
Your chariots, servants, equipage and plate,
Your brilliant levees, and your gala-days,
Your court-parade, your frankincense of praise,
* There was a piper had a Cow
He had no hay to give her
He took his pipe and began to play-
"Consider, Cow, consider."
† A well known Sexton.
Your cries seditious 'gainst Virginia's sway,
Which all the other states were made to obey;
Against her Statesmen too, who're born to show
A truth which first or last the world must know,
That the best way a Government to raise
Is to destroy its pillars and its base,
All these to aid your sinking cause shall fail,
ADAMS must fall, and CLINTON shall prevail.
Soon, very soon, will every open'd eye
The fatal issue of your schemes espy ;
While in equality our days shall flow,
And licence unrestrain'd its choicest gifts bestow.
Rejoice! ye Anti-fed'ral Clan rejoice!
'Gainst Bank and Funding-system raise your voice!
Declare from Ruin'd Faith what honours spring!
"Shall CLINTON reign, and HENRICO not sing?"
You call th' Electors Jacobins-what then?
Are not the Jacobins the first of men?
Most certainly they are, I do protest,
Of men the very first and very best;
With fist and stick this truth will I maintain ;
For arguments I never rack my brain;
No-to poor drivelling souls I leave such things,
Whom right and reason hold in leading-strings.
The Jacobins, once more I say, are good,
Staunch, noble fellows, fond of letting blood—
The Jacobins I dwell upon the name,
My admiration and my homage claim-
To wond'ring nations do they not display
A noble generous spirit every day?
With much politeness and with equal skill,
Do they not torture whom they mean to kill?
And fir'd with zeal to render man humane,
Bear high on pikes the heads of children slain?
Do they not curse that chosen man of God
Old David call'd, who shed Uriah's blood,
And swear, indignant, that they'll never sing*
The psalms compos'd by that adult'rous king?
And shall not we, inspir'd with equal hate,
Reject the Psalms of Brady, Watts and Tate?
Have they not heav'd Oppression's iron yoke
From off the necks of thirty million folk?
With strength Sampsonian broke the chains of power,
And freed their legs, from long confinement sore?
Have they not fill'd Old Freedom so with fire
That the good Dame is ready to expire?
And e'en at length have worn her bellows out
In blowing Faction's flame the world about?
Have they not tumbled from his splendid throne
Our Ally, once so good, great Louis down,
* This curious fact, among the multifarious events of the French Revolution, may still exist in the recollection of some of our readers. A member of one of the French legislative bodies, it was said, about this time seriously proposed the rejection of the psalms of David from the service of their churches for the reason above assigned. This reminds us of the story of the Cape Cod man who had removed to a town in Connecticut ; and on the introduction of the psalms of Dr. Watts in place of the former New-England Version into the Churches of that State, declared with much indignation to his clergyman, that he was determined never to attend Divine Service in his Church while he persisted in singing the psalms of that Isaac Watts, whom he had very well known at Cape Cod, and who was the greatest drunkard in the place.
And keep him closely in the Temple pent,
Like some fine stall-fed ox for slaughter meant?
Have they not plunder'd of their goods and cash
All those Aristocrats who cut a dash?
Have they not made the Priests renounce their vows,
And pluck'd the mitre from their hallow'd brows,
While their Satellites, the Monks and Friars,
Have furnish'd glorious fuel for their fires?
Have they not, fraught with sentiments refin'd,
Crown'd the big Majesty of Human Kind?
Set up, on high, that many-headed God,
And bade the world bow down before his nod?
So, wrought in gold, with dazzling jewels spread,
On Dura's plain the Image rear'd its head,
While awe-struck thousands at the King's decree,
Bow'd the proud head, and bent the stubborn knee.
All this the Jacobins have done and more,
And France no longer owns monarchic power;
Set loose from law, from moral shackles freed,
Her sons have gain'd fair freedom's fullest meed.
Rejoice! ye pious Jacobins, rejoice!
Ye graceful Fishwomen strain high your voice!
Proclaim from bloody heads what transports spring!
"Shall CLINTON reign and HENRICO not sing?"
But future ages when they come to trace
The varied history of the human race;
When they regard the list of woes so black,
That left such bloody weals on Time's old back;
Will at this epoch complaisantly pause,
And wet with tears their cheeks and drop their grate
To those good souls, by charity inspir'd,
And meek-ey'd pity's soft enthusiasm fir'd,
Who kindly clubb'd their wits and eke their power,
To speed poor Frenchmen on their saintly tour,
And, with a world of pains, so hard have striven
To boost their brethren o'er the walls of heaven.
Sons of benevolence! my heart o'erflows,
When I but think from what a weight of woes,
From what dread injuries, what pain, what grief,
Your neighbours, through your cares, have gain'd
relief;
In Mr. Giles's classic phrase, though they
Had rather* manag'd matters their own way;
Had rather taken their own time to go;
Had rather staid a longer while below;
Had rather jogg'd more softly on their course;
And rather not have mounted Death's white horse.
Cold are those hopes which once your bosoms
warm'd,
Those sanguine hopes that Order's sons had from'd,
O'er those bright scenes, which erst your fancies fed,
The Revolution's mildewing blast has spread.
Then why don't you to Europe's monarchs go,
And join those tyrants 'gainst your common foe?
The Duke of Brunswick will be glad, no doubt,
Of such strong aid the Jacobins to scout,
With tender Indian hugs he'll squeeze you to him,
For you can fully ne plus ultra show him.
† For examples of this elegant phraseology, see the Debates in Congress-Article, Mr. Giles.
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