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APPENDIX K.

SONGS AND RHYMES.
THE DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.1

In a mouldering cave where the wretched retreat,
Britannia sat wasted with care;
She mourned for her Wolfe, and exclaim’d against fate
And gave herself up to despair.
The walls of her cell she had sculptured around
With the feats of her favourite son;
And even the dust, as it lay on the ground,
Was engraved with the deeds he had done.

The sire of the Gods, from his crystalline throne,
Beheld the disconsolate dame,
And moved with her tears, he sent Mercury down,
And these were the tidings that came:
‘Britannia forbear, not a sigh nor a tear
For thy Wolfe so deservedly loved,
Your tears shall be changed into triumphs of joy,
For thy Wolfe is not dead but removed.

‘The sons of the East, the proud giants of old,
Have crept from their darksome abodes,
And this is the news as in Heaven it was told,
They were marching to war with the Gods;
A Council was held in the chambers of Jove,
And this was their final decree,
That Wolfe should be called to the armies above,
And the charge was entrusted to me.

‘To the plains of Quebec with the orders I flew,
He begg’d for a moment’s delay;
He cry’d, ‘Oh! forbear, let me victory hear,
And then thy command I’ll obey.’
With a darksome thick film I encompass’d his eyes,
And bore him away in an urn,
Lest the fondness he bore to his own native shore,
Should induce him again to return.’

FARMER SHORT’S DOG PORTER. A TALE.1

The following story, ridiculous as it is, is a fact. A farmer at New Shoreham, near Brighthelmstone, in England, having voted at an election for a member of Parhament, contrary to the pleasure of three neighboring justices, they took revenge upon his dog, which they caused to be hung, for starting a hare upon the road The piece has been very little seen, never published, nor any copies taken.

Three Justices (so says my tale)
Once met upon the public weal.
For learning, law, and parts profound,
Their fame was spread the county round;
Each by his wondrous art could tell
Of things as strange as Sydrophel;
Or by the help of sturdy ale,
So cleverly could tell a tale,
That half the gaping standers by
Would laugh aloud. The rest would cry.
Or by the help of nobler wine,
Would knotty points so nice define,
That in an instant right was wrong,
Yet did not hold that station long,
For while they talk’d of wrong and right,
The question vanish’d out of sight.
Each knew by practice where to turn
To every powerful page in Burn,
And could by help of note and book
Talk law like Littleton and Coke.
Each knew by instinct when and where
A farmer caught or kill’d a hare;
Could tell if any man had got
One hundred pounds per ann, or not;
Or what was greater, could divine
If it was only ninety-nine.
For when the hundred wanted one,
They took away the owner’s gun.
Knew by the leering of an eye
If girls had lost their chastity,
And if they had not—would divine
Some way to make their virtue shine.
These learned brothers being assembled,
(At which the county feared and trembled,)
A warrant sent to bring before ‘em,
One Farmer Short, who dwelt at Shoreham,
Upon a great and heavy charge,
Which we shall here relate at large,
That those who were not there may read,
In after days, the mighty deed:

Viz.
“That he, the ‘foresaid Farmer Short,
Being by the devil moved, had not
One hundred pounds per annum got;
That having not (in form likewise)
The fear of God before his eyes,
By force and arms did keep and cherish,
Within the aforesaid town and parish,
Against the statute so provided,
A dog. And there the dog abided.
That he, this dog, did then and there
Pursue, and take, and kill a hare;
Which treason was, or some such thing,
Against our sovereign lord the king.”

The constable was bid to jog,
And bring the farmer—not the dog.

But fortune, whose perpetual wheel
Grinds disappointment sharp as steel,
On purpose to attack the pride
Of those who over others ride,
So nicely brought the matter round,
That Farmer Short could not be found,
Which plunged the bench in so much doubt
They knew not what to go about.
But after pondering pro and con,
And mighty reasonings thereupon,
They found, on opening of the laws,
That he, the dog aforesaid, was
By being privy to the fact,
Within the meaning of the act,
And since the master had withdrawn,
And was the Lord knows whither gone,
They judged it right, and good in law,
That he, the dog, should answer for
Such crimes as they by proof could show,
Were acted by himself and Co.
The constable again was sent,
To bring the dog; or dread the event.

PoorPorter, right before the door,
Was guarding of his master’s store;
And as the constable approach’d him,
He caught him by the leg and broach’d him;
Poor Porter thought (if dogs can think)
He came to steal his master’s chink.
The man, by virtue of his staff,
Bid people help; not stand and laugh;
On which a mighty rout began;
Some blamed the dog, and some the man.
Some said he had no business there,
Some said he had business every where.
At length the constable prevail’d,
And those who would not help were jail’d;
And taking Porter by the collar,
Commanded all the guards to follow.

The justices received the felon,
With greater form than I can tell on,
And quitting now their wine and punch,
Began upon him all at once.

At length a curious quibble rose,
How far the law could interpose,
For it was proved, and rightly too,
That he, the dog, did not pursue
The hare with any ill intent,
But only followed by the scent;
And she, the hare, by running hard,
Thro’ hedge and ditch, without regard,
Plunged in a pond, and there was drown’d,
And by a neighboring justice found;
Wherefore, though he the hare annoy’d,
It can’t be said that he destroy’d;
It even can’t be proved he beat her,
And “to destroy”
must mean “to eat her.”
Did you e’er see a gamester struck,
With all the symptoms of ill luck?
Or mark the visage which appears,
When even Hope herself despairs?
So look’d the bench, and every brother
Sad pictures drew of one another;
Till one more learned than the rest
Rose up, and thus the court address’d:

“Why, gentlemen, I’ll tell ye how,
Ye may clear up this matter now,
For I am of opinion strong
The dog deserves, and should be hung.
I’ll prove it by as plain a case,
As is the nose upon your face.

Now if, suppose, a man, or so,
Should be obliged, or not, to go
About, or not about, a case,
To this, or that, or t’ other place;
And if another man, for fun,
Should fire a pistol (viz.) a gun,
And he, the first, by knowing not
That he, the second man, had shot,
Should undesign’dly meet the bullet,
Against the throat (in Greek) the gullet,
And get such mischief by the hit
As should unsense him of his wit,
And if that, after that he died,
D’ye think the other may n’t be tried?
Most sure he must, and hang’d, because
He fired his gun against the laws:
For’t is a case most clear and plain,
Had A not shot, B had not been slain:
So had the dog not chased the hare,
She never had been drown’d—that’s clear.”

This logic, rhetoric, and wit,
So nicely did the matter hit,
That Porter, though unheard, was cast,
And in a halter breathed his last.
The justices adjourned to dine,
And whet their logic up with wine.

THE SNOWDROP AND THE CRITIC,1
To the Editor of the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.

Sir—

I have given your very modest “Snow Drop” what, I think, Shakespeare calls “a local habitation and a name;” that is, I have made a poet of him, and have sent him to take possession of a page in your next Magazine: here he comes, disputing with a critic about the propriety of a prologue.

EnterCriticandSnowDrop.

CRITIC.

Prologues to magazines!—the man is mad,
No magazine a prologue ever had;
But let us hear what new and mighty things
Your wonder working magic fancy brings.

SNOW DROP.

Bit by the muse in an unlucky hour,
I’ve left myself at home, and turn’d a flower,
And thus disguised came forth to tell my tale,
A plain white Snow Drop gathered from the vale:
I come to sing that summer is at hand,
The summer time of wit you’ll understand;
And that this garden of our Magazine
Will soon exhibit such a pleasing scene,
That even critics shall admire the show
If their good grace will give us time to grow;
Beneath the surface of the parent earth
We’ve various seeds just struggling into birth;
Plants, fruits, and flowers, and all the smiling race,
That can the orchard or the garden grace;
Our numbers, Sir, so fast and endless are,
That when in full complexion we appear,
Each eye, each hand, shall pluck what suits its taste,
And every palate shall enjoy a feast;
The Rose and Lily shall address the fair,
And whisper sweetly out, “My dears,
take care”; With sterling worth,
the Plant of Sense shall rise,
And teach the curious to philosophize;
The keen eyed wit shall claim the Scented Briar,
And sober cits the Solid Grain admire;
While generous Juices sparkling from the Vine,
Shall warm the audience until they cry—divine!
And when the scenes of one gay month are o’er,
Shall clap their hands, and shout—encore, encore!

CRITIC.

All this is mighty fine! but prithee, when
The frost returns, how fight you then your men?

SNOW DROP.

I’ll tell you, Sir: we’ll garnish out the scenes
With stately rows of hardy Evergreens,
Trees that will bear the frost, and deck their tops
With everlasting flowers, like diamond drops;
We’ll draw, and paint, and carve, with so much skill,
That wondering wits shall cry,—diviner still!

CRITIC.

Better, and better, yet! but now suppose,
Some critic wight, in mighty verse or prose,
Should draw his gray goose weapon, dipt in gall,
And mow ye down, Plants, Flowers, Trees, and all.

SNOW DROP.

Why, then we’ll die like Flowers of sweet Perfume,
And yield a fragrance even in the tomb!

THE MONK AND THE JEW.

An unbelieving
Jew one day Was skating o’er the icy way,
Which being brittle let him in,
Just deep enough to catch his chin;
And in that woful plight he hung,
With only power to move his tongue.
A brother skater near at hand,
A Papist born in foreign land,
With hasty strokes directly flew
To save poor Mordecai the Jew—
“But first, quoth he, I must enjoin
That you renounce your faith for mine;
There’s no entreaties else will do,
‘T is heresy to help a Jew—”
“Forswear mine fait! No! Cot forbid!
Dat would be very base indeed,
Come never mind such tings as deeze,
Tink, tink, how fery hard it freeze.
More coot you do, more coot you be,
Vat signifies your fait to me?
Come tink agen, how cold and vet,
And help me out von little bit.”
“By holy mass, ‘t is hard,
I own, To see a man both hang and drown,
And can’t relieve him from his plight
Because he is an Israelite;
The church refuses all assistance,
Beyond a certain pale and distance;
And all the service I can lend
Is praying for your soul my friend.”
“Pray for my soul, ha! ha! you make me laugh.
You petter help me out py half:
Mine soul I farrant vill take care,
To pray for her own self, my tear:
So tink a little now for me,
‘T is I am in de hole not she.”
“The church forbids it, friend,
and saith That all shall die who have no faith.”
“Vell, if I must pelieve,
I must, But help me out von little first.”
“No, not an inch without
Amen That seals the whole”—“Vell,
hear me den, I here renounce for coot and all
De race of Jews both great and small;
‘Tis de vurst trade peneath the sun,
Or vurst religion; dat’s all von.
Dey cheat, and get deir living py’t,
And lie, and swear the lie is right.
I’ll co to mass as soon as ever
I get to toder side the river.
So help me out, dow Christian friend,
Dat I may do as I intend.”
“Perhaps you do intend to cheat,
If once you get upon your feet.” “No, no,
I do intend to be A Christian, such a one as dee.”
For, thought the Jew,
he is as much A Christian man as I am such.
The bigot Papist joyful hearted
To hear the heretic converted,
Replied to the designing
Jew, “This was a happy fall for you:
You’d better die a Christian now,
For if you live you’ll break your vow.”
Then said no more, but in a trice
Popp’d Mordecai beneath the ice.

IMPROMPTU ON BACHELORS’ HALL,

At Philadelphia, being destroyed by Lightning, 1775.

Fair Venus so often was miss’d from the skies,
And Bacchus as frequently absent likewise,
That the synod began to inquire out the reason,
Suspecting the culprits were plotting of treason;
At length it was found they had open’d a ball
At a place by the mortals call’d Bachelors’
Hall; Where Venus disclosed every fun she could think of,
And Bacchus made nectar for mortals to drink of.
Jove, highly displeas’d at such riotous doings,
Sent Time to reduce the whole building to ruins;
But Time was so slack with his traces and dashes,
That Jove in a passion consumed it to ashes.

LIBERTY TREE.

A Song, written early in the American Revolution.

Tune—The gods of Greece.

In a chariot of light, from the regions of day,
The Goddess of Liberty came, Ten thousand celestials directed her way,
And hither conducted the dame. A fair budding branch from the gardens above,
Where millions with millions agree, She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,
And the plant she named Liberty Tree.

The celestial exotic stuck deep in the ground,
Like a native it flourished and bore;
The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,
To seek out this peaceable shore.
Unmindful of names or distinctions they came,
For freemen like brothers agree;
With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,
And their temple was Liberty Tree.

Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old.
Their bread in contentment they ate,
Unvexed with the troubles of silver or gold,
The cares of the grand and the great.
With timber and tar they Old England supplied,
And supported her power on the sea:
Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,
For the honour of Liberty Tree.

But hear, O ye swains, (’t is a tale most profane,)
How all the tyrannical powers,
Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain
To cut down this guardian of ours.
From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms,
Thro’ the land let the sound of it flee:
Let the far and the near all unite with a cheer,
In defence of our Liberty Tree.

AN ADDRESS TO LORD HOWE.1

The rain pours down, the city looks forlorn,
And gloomy subjects suit the howling morn;
Close by my fire, with door and window fast,
And safely shelter’d from the driving blast,
To gayer thoughts I bid a day’s adieu,
To spend a scene of solitude with you.

So oft has black revenge engross’d the care
Of all the leisure hours man finds to spare;
So oft has guilt, in all her thousand dens,
Call’d for the vengeance of chastising pens;
That while I fain would ease my heart on you,
No thought is left untold, no passion new.

From flight to flight the mental path appears,
Worn with the steps of near six thousand years,
And fill’d throughout with every scene of pain,
From George the murderer down to murderous
Cain Alike in cruelty, alike in hate,
In guilt alike, but more alike in fate,
Curséd supremely for the blood they drew,
Each from the rising world, while each was new.

Go, man of blood! true likeness of the first,
And strew your blasted head with homely dust:
In ashes sit—in wretched sackcloth weep,
And with unpitied sorrows cease to sleep.
Go haunt the tombs, and single out the place
Where earth itself shall suffer a disgrace.
Go spell the letters on some mouldering urn,
And ask if he who sleeps there can return.
Go count the numbers that in silence lie,
And learn by study what it is to die;
For sure your heart, if any heart you own,
Conceits that man expires without a groan;
That he who lives receives from you a grace,
Or death is nothing but a change of place:
That peace is dull, that joy from sorrow springs
And war the most desirable of things.
Else why these scenes that wound the feeling mind,
This sport of death—this cockpit of mankind!
Why sobs the widow in perpetual pain?
Why cries the orphan, “Oh! my father’s slain!”
Why hangs the sire his paralytic head,
And nods with manly grief—“My son is dead!”
Why drops the tear from off the sister’s cheek,
And sweetly tells the misery she would speak?
Or why, in sorrow sunk, does pensive John
To all the neighbors tell, “Poor master’s gone!”

Oh! could I paint the passion that I feel,
Or point a horror that would wound like steel,
To thy unfeeling, unrelenting mind,
I’d send destruction and relieve mankind.
You that are husbands, fathers, brothers, all
The tender names which kindred learn to call;
Yet like an image carved in massy stone,
You bear the shape, but sentiment have none;
Allied by dust and figure, not with mind,
You only herd, but live not with mankind,

Since then no hopes to civilize remain,
And mild Philosophy has preached in vain,
One prayer is left, which dreads no proud reply,
That he who made you breathe will make you die.

THE BOSTON PATRIOTIC SONG.

Tune—Anacreon in Heaven.

Ye sons of Columbia who bravely have fought,
For those rights which unstain’d from your sires have descended,
May you long taste the blessings your valor has bought,
And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended;
’Mid the reign of mild peace,
May your nation increase,
With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece;
And ne’er may the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves.

In a clime whose rich vales feed the marts of the world,
Whose shores are unshaken by Europe’s commotion,
The trident of commerce should never be hurl’d,
To increase the legitimate power of the ocean;
But should pirates invade,
Though in thunder array’d,
Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade.
For ne’er shall the sons, etc.

The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,
Had justly ennobled our nation in story,
Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our bright day,
And envelop’d the sun of American glory;
But let traitors be told,
Who their country have sold,
And barter’d their God for his image in gold,
That ne’er shall the sons, etc.
While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,
And society’s base threats with wide dissolution,
May Peace, like the dove who return’d from the flood,
Find an Ark of abode in our mild Constitution;
But tho’ peace is our aim,
Yet the boon we disclaim,
If bought by our Sovereignty, Justice, or Fame.
For ne’er shall the sons, etc.

’T is the fire of the flint each American warms,
Let Rome’s haughty victors beware of collision!
Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms,
We’re a World by ourselves, and disdain a division;
While with patriot pride,
To our laws we’re allied,
No foe can subdue us, no faction divide;
For ne’er shall the sons, etc.

Our mountains are crown’d with imperial oak,
Whose roots like our Liberty ages have nourish’d,
But long e’er the nation submits to the yoke,
Not a tree shall be left on the soil where it flourish’d.
Should invasion impend,
Every grove would descend,
From the hill tops they shaded, our shores to defend.
For ne’er shall the sons, etc.

Let our patriots destroy vile anarchy’s worm,
Lest our Liberty’s growth should be check’d by corrosion,
Then let clouds thicken round us, we heed not the storm,
Our earth fears no shock but the earth’s own explosion;
Foes assail us in vain,
Tho’ their fleets bridge the main,
For our altars, and claims, with our lives we’ll maintain.
For ne’er shall the sons, etc.

Should the tempest of war overshadow our land,
Its bolts can ne’er rend Freedom’s temple asunder;
For unmoved at its portals would Washington stand
And repulse with his breast the assaults of the thunder.
His sword from its sleep,
In its scabbard would leap,
And conduct with its point every flash to the deep.
For ne’er shall the sons, etc.

Let Fame to the world sound America’s voice,
No intrigue her sons from their government can sever;
Its wise regulations and laws are their choice,
And shall flourish till Liberty slumber forever.
Then unite heart and hand,
Like Leonidas’ band;
And swear by the God of the ocean and land,
That ne’er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

HAIL GREAT REPUBLIC.

Tune—Rule Britannia.

Hail great Republic of the world,
Which rear’d her empire in the west,
Where fam’d Columbus’ flag unfurl’d,
Gave tortured Europe scenes of rest;
Be thou forever great and free,
The land of Love, and Liberty!

Beneath thy spreading, mantling vine,
Beside each flowery grove and spring, And where thy lofty mountains shine,
May all thy sons and fair ones sing.
Be thou forever, &c.

From thee may hellish Discord prowl,
With all her dark and hateful train; And whilst thy mighty waters roll,
May heaven-descended Concord reign.
Be thou forever, &c.

Where’er the Atlantic surges lave,
Or sea the human eye delights, There may thy starry standard wave,
The Constellation of thy Rights!
Be thou forever, &c.

May ages as they rise proclaim
The glories of thy natal day;
And States from thy exalted name
Learn how to rule, and to obey.
Be thou forever, &c.

Let Laureats make their birthdays known,
Or how war’s thunderbolts are hurl’d;
Tis ours the charter, ours alone,
To sing the birthday of a world!
Be thou forever great and free,
The land of Love and Liberty!

COLUMBIA.

Tune—Anacreon in Heaven.

To Columbia who, gladly reclined at her ease
On Atlantic’s broad bosom, lay smiling in peace,
Minerva flew hastily sent from above,
And addrest her this message from thundering Jove:
“Rouse, quickly awake!
Your Freedom’s at stake,
Storms arise, your renown’d Independence to shake,
Then lose not a moment, my aid I will lend,
If your sons will assemble your Rights to defend.

Roused Columbia rose up, and indignant declared,
That no nation she’d wrong’d and no nation she fear’d,
That she wished not for war, but if war were her fate,
She would rally up souls independent and great:
Then tell mighty Jove,
That we quickly will prove,
We deserve the protection he’ll send from above;
For ne’er shall the sons of America bend,
But united their Rights and their Freedom defend.

Minerva smiled cheerfully as she withdrew,
Enraptured to find her Americans true,
“For,” said she, “our sly Mercury ofttimes reports,
That your sons are divided”—Columbia retorts,
“Tell that vile god of thieves,
His report but deceives,
And we care not what madman such nonsense believes,
For ne’er shall the sons of America bend,
But united their Rights and their Freedom defend.”

Jove rejoiced in Columbia such union to see,
And swore by old Styx she deserved to be free;
Then assembled the Gods, who all gave consent,
Their assistance if needful her ill to prevent;
Mars arose, shook his armour,
And swore his old Farmer1
Should ne’er in his country see aught that could harm her,
For ne’er should the sons of America bend,
But united their Rights and their Freedom defend.

Minerva resolved that her Ægis she’d lend,
And Apollo declared he their cause would defend,
Old Vulcan an armour would forge for their aid,
More firm than the one for Achilles he made.
Jove vow’d he’d prepare,
A compound most rare,
Of courage and union, a bountiful share;
And swore ne’er shall the sons of America bend,
But their Rights and their Freedom most firmly defend.

Ye sons of Columbia, then join hand in hand,
Divided we fall, but united we stand;
‘T is ours to determine, ‘t is ours to decree,
That in peace we will live Independent and Free;
And should from afar
Break the horrors of war,
We’ll always be ready at once to declare,
That ne’er will the sons of America bend,
But united their Rights and their Freedom defend.

FROM THE CASTLE IN THE AIR, TO THE LITTLE CORNER OF THE WORLD.1

In the region of clouds, where the whirlwinds arise,
My Castle of Fancy was built;
The turrets reflected the blue from the skies,
And the windows with sunbeams were gilt.

The rainbow sometimes, in its beautiful state,
Enamell’d the mansion around;
And the figures that fancy in clouds can create,
Supplied me with gardens and ground.

I had grottoes, and fountains, and orange tree groves,
I had all that enchantment has told;
I had sweet shady walks, for the Gods and their Loves,
I had mountains of coral and gold.

But a storm that I felt not, had risen and roll’d,
While wrapp’d in a slumber I lay;
And when I look’d out in the morning, behold
My Castle was carried away.

It pass’d over rivers, and vallies, and groves,
The world it was all in my view;
I thought of my friends, of their fates, of their loves,
And often, full often of you.

At length it came over a beautiful scene,
That nature in silence had made;
The place was but small, but’t was sweetly serene,
And chequer’d with sunshine and shade.

I gazed and I envied with painful goodwill,
And grew tired of my seat in the air;
When all of a sudden my Castle stood still,
As if some attraction was there.

Like a lark from the sky it came fluttering down,
And placed me exactly in view,
When whom should I meet in this charming retreat,
This corner of calmness, but you.

Delighted to find you in honour and ease,
I felt no more sorrow, nor pain;
But the wind coming fair,I ascended the breeze,
And went back with my Castle again.

TO SIR ROBERT SMYTH.

Paris, 1800.

As I will not attempt to rival your witty description of Love, (in which you say, “Love is like paper, with a fool it is wit, with a wit it is folly,”) I will retreat to sentiment, and try if I can match you there; and that I may start with a fair chance, I will begin with your own question,

WHAT IS LOVE?

‘T is that delightsome transport we can feel
Which painters cannot paint, nor words reveal,
Nor any art we know of can conceal.

Canst thou describe the sunbeams to the blind,
Or make him feel a shadow with his mind?
So neither can we by description shew
This first of all Felicities below.

When happy Love pours magic o’er the soul,
And all our thoughts in sweet delirium roll;
When Contemplation spreads her rainbow wings,
And every flutter some new rapture brings;
How sweetly then our moments glide away,
And dreams repeat the raptures of the day:
We live in ecstacy, to all things kind,
For Love can teach a moral to the mind.

But are there not some other marks that prove,
What is this wonder of the soul, call’d Love?
O yes there are, but of a different kind,
The dreadful horrors of a dismal mind:
Some jealous Fury throws her poison’d dart,
And rends in pieces the distracted heart.

When Love’s a tyrant, and the soul a slave,
No hope remains to thought, but in the grave;
In that dark den it sees an end to grief,
And what was once its dread becomes relief.

What are the iron chains that hands have wrought?
The hardest chain to break is made of thought.
Think well of this, ye Lovers, and be kind,
Nor play with torture on a tortured mind.

Note.—The above poem, that which precedes, and those which follow it, with the exception of “Lines Extempore,” were never intended for publication, and are altogether posthumous.—Editor.

CONTENTMENT; OR, IF YOU PLEASE, CONFESSION.

To Mrs. Barlow, on her pleasantly telling the author, that after writing against the superstition of the Scripture religion, he was setting up a religion capable of more bigotry and enthusiasm, and more dangerous to its votaries—that of making a religion of Love.

O could we always live and love,
And always be sincere,
I would not wish for heaven above,
My heaven would be here.

Though many countries I have seen,
And more may chance to see.
My Little Corner of the World
Is half the world to me;

The other half, as you may guess,
America contains;
And thus, between them, I possess
The whole world for my pains.

I’m then contented with my lot,
I can no happier be;
For neither world I’m sure has got
So rich a man as me.

Then send no fiery chariot down
To take me off from hence,
But leave me on my heavenly ground—
This prayer is common-sense.

Let others choose another plan,
I mean no fault to find;
The true theology of man
Is happiness of mind.

IMPROMPTU

ON A LONG-NOSED FRIEND.

Going along the other day,
Upon a certain plan;
I met a nose upon the way,
Behind it was a man.

I called unto the nose to stop,
And when it had done so,—
The man behind it—he came up;
They made Zenobio.

Paris, 1800.

A FEDERALIST FEAST.7

From Mr. Paine to Mr. Jefferson, on the occasion of a toast being given at a federal dinner at Washington, of, “May they never know pleasure who love Paine.”

I send you, Sir, a tale about some ‘Feds,’
Who, in their wisdom, got to loggerheads.
The case was this, they felt so flat and sunk,
They took a glass together and got drunk.
Such things, you know, are neither new nor rare,
For some will harry themselves when in despair.
It was the natal day of Washington,
And that they thought a famous day for fun;
For with the learned world it is agreed,
The better day the better deed.
They talked away, and as the glass went round
They grew, in point of wisdom, more profound;
For at the bottom of the bottle lies
That kind of sense we overlook when wise.
‘Come, here’s a toast,’ cried one, with roar immense,
May none know pleasure who love (Common Sense).
‘Bravo!’ cried some,—no, no! some others cried,
But left it to the waiter to decide.
‘I think, said he, the case would be more plain,
To leave out (Common Sense), and put in Paine.’
On this a mighty noise arose among This drunken, bawling, senseless throng:
Some said that common sense was all a curse,
That making people wiser made them worse—
It learned them to be careful of their purse,
And not be laid about like babes at nurse,
Nor yet believe in stories upon trust,
Which all mankind, to be well governed, must;
And that the toast was better at the first,
And he that did n’t think so might be cursed.
So on they went, till such a fray arose
As all who know what Feds are may suppose.

LINES EXTEMPORE.

July, 1803.

Quick as the lightning’s vivid flash
The poet’s eye o’er Europe rolls;
Sees battles rage, hears tempests crash,
And dims at horror’s threatening scowls—

Marks ambition’s ruthless king,
With crimson’d banners scathe the globe,
While trailing after conquest’s wing,
Man’s festering wounds his demons probe.

Palléd with streams of reeking gore
That stain the proud imperial day;
He turns to view the western shore,
Where freedom holds her boundless sway.

‘T is here her sage8 triumphant sways
An empire in the people’s love,
‘T is here the sovereign will obeys
No King but Him who rules above.

THE STRANGE STORY OF KORAH, DATHAN, AND ABIRAM.

Numbers, chap, xvi., accounted for.

Old ballads sing of Chevy Chace,
Beneath whose rueful shade,
Full many a valiant man was slain
And many a widow made.

But I will tell of one much worse,
That happ’d in days of yore,
All in the barren wilderness,
Beside the Jordan shore,

Where Moses led the children forth,
Call’d chosen tribes of God,
And fed them forty years with quails,
And ruled them with a rod.

A dreadful fray once rose among
These self named tribes of I Am;
Where Korah fell, and by his side
Fell Dathan and Abiram.

An earthquake swallowed thousands up,
And fire came down like stones,
Which slew their sons and daughters all,
Their wives and little ones.

‘T was all about old Aaron’s tythes
This murdering quarrel rose;
For tythes are worldly things of old,
That led from words to blows.

A Jew of Venice has explained,
In the language of his nation,
The manner how this fray began,
Of which here is translation.

There was a widow old and poor,
Who scarce herself could keep;
Her stock of goods was very small,
Her flock one single sheep.

And when her time of shearing came,
She counted much her gains;
For now, said she, I shall be blest
With plenty for my pains.

When Aaron heard the sheep was shear’d
And gave a good increase,
He straightway sent his tything man
And took away the fleece.

At this the weeping widow went
To Korah to complain,
And Korah he to Aaron went
In order to explain.

But Aaron said, in such a case,
There can be no forbearing,
The law ordains that thou shalt give
The first fleece of thy shearing.

When lambing time was come about,
This sheep became a dam,
And bless’d the widow’s mournful heart,
By bringing forth a lamb.

When Aaron heard the sheep had young,
He staid till it was grown,
But then he sent his tything man,
And took it for his own.

Again the weeping widow went
To Korah with her grief,
But Aaron said, in such a case
There could be no relief;

For in the holy law ‘t is writ,
That whilst thou keep’st the stock,
Thou shalt present unto the Lord
The firstling of thy flock.

The widow then, in deep distress,
And having naught to eat,
Against her will she killed the sheep,
To feed upon the meat.

When Aaron heard the sheep was killed
He sent and took a limb;
Which by the holy law, he said,
Pertainéd unto him:

For in the holy law ‘t is writ,
That when thou kill’st a beast,
Thou shalt a shoulder and a breast
Present unto the priest.

The widow then, worn out with grief,
Sat down to mourn and weep;
And in a fit of passion said,
The devil take the sheep!

Then Aaron took the whole away,
And said, the laws record
That all and each devoted thing
Belongs unto the Lord.

The widow went among her kin,
The tribes of Israel rose,
And all the widows, young and old,
Pull’d Aaron by the nose.

But Aaron called an earthquake up,
And fire from out the sky;
And all the consolation is—
The Bible tells a lie.

A COMMENTARY ON THE EASTERN WISE MEN,

Travelling to Bethlehem, guided by a Star, to see the little Jesus in a Manger, as recorded in the Gospel of Matthew.

Three pedlars travelling to a fair,
To see the fun and what was there,
And sell their merchandise;
They stopp’d upon the road to chat,
Refresh, and ask of this and that,
That they might be more wise.

“And pray,” the landlord says to them,
“Where go ye, sirs?” “To Bethlehem,”
The citizens replied.
“You’re merchants, sirs,” to them said he,
“We are,” replied the pedlars three,
“And eastern men beside.”

“I pray, what have you in your packs?
If worth the while I will go snacks,”
To them quoth Major Domo;
“We’ve buckles, buttons, spectacles,
And every thing a merchant sells,”
Replied the travelling trio.

“These things are very well,” said he,
“For beaux and those who cannot see
Much further than their knuckles;
But Bethlehem Fair’s for boys and girls
Who never think of spectacles,
And cannot buy your buckles:

“I have a pack of toys,” quoth he,
“A travelling merchant left with me,
Who could not pay his score,
And you shall have them on condition
You sell them at a cheap commission,
And make the money sure.”

“There’s one of us will stay in pawn,
Until the other two return,
If you suspect our faith,” said they;
The landlord thought this was a plan
To leave upon his hands the man,
And therefore he said “Nay.”

They truck’d however for the pack,
Which one of them took on his back,
And off the merchants travelled;
And here the tale the apostles told
Of wise men and their gifts of gold,
Will fully be unravelled.

The star in the east that shines so bright,
As might be seen both day and night,
If you will credit them,
It was no other than a sign
To a public house where pedlars dine,
In East Street, Bethlehem.

These wise men were the pedlars three,
As you and all the world may see,
By reading to the end;
For commentators have mistook,
In paraphrasing on a book
They did not understand.

Our travellers coming to a house,
Scarce fit to entertain a mouse,
Enquired to have a room;
The landlord said he was not able,
To give them any but a stable,
So many folks were come.

“I pray, whom have you here,” say they,
“And how much money must we pay,
For we have none to spare.”
“Why, there’s one Joseph and a wench,
Who are to go before the bench
About a love affair.

“Some how or other, in a manger,
A child exposed to every danger
Was found, as if’t was sleeping:
The girl she swears that she’s a maid,
So says the man, but I’m afraid
On me will fall the keeping:

“Now if you’ll set your wits about
To find this knotty matter out,
I’ll pay whate’er it may be.”
Then on the trav’lling pedlars went,
To pay their birthday compliment,
And talk about the baby.

They then unpack’d their pack of toys,
Some were for show and some for noise,
But mostly for the latter;
One gave a rattle, one a whistle,
And one a trumpet made of gristle,
To introduce the matter:

One squeaked away, the other blew,
The third played on the rattle too,
To keep the bantling easy;
And hence this story comes to us,
Of which some people make such fuss,
About the Eastern Magi.

Note.—The above has long been published as Paine’s, but was first printed by Cheetham (in his libellous biography of Paine) who got it from Carver, a treacherous parasite of Paine, and there is no certainty that it was written by Paine.—Editor.

[1]This song was written at the time of Wolfe’s death, and is said to have been sung at the Headstrong Club, in Lewes, England In several editions it is said to have been printed in The Gentleman’s Magazine. Such is not the fact It first appeared in Paine’s Pennsylvania Magazine, March, 1775, with the music. It is the earliest composition of Paine which has been preserved. Paine never collected any of his poems.—Editor.

[1]This incident was made the subject of a prose drama, by Mr. Justice Edward Long: “The Trial of Farmer Carter’s Dog Porter, for Murder. Taken down verbatim et literatim in Short-hand (sic), and now published by Authority, from the corrected Manuscript of Counsellor Clear-point, Barrister at Law. N. B. This is the only true and authentic copy; and all others are spurious.

‘——Manet altâ mente repostum Judicium.”

Virgil.

“London: Printed for T. Lowndes, in Fleet-Street. MDCCLXXI. Price One Shilling.”

Nichols (“Literary Anecdotes,” viii., p. 435) says that Long’s pamphlet “has been attributed to Tom Paine, some of whose admirers assert that he did write a pamphlet on that subject, founded on a real event which actually took place, 1771, in the neighbourhood of Chichester, where the actors in the tragedy were well known by their nicknames given in Mr. Long’s pamphlet.”

Regarding the genuineness of the incident, it seems to be sufficiently attested by the fact of its having engaged the attention of two different writers, Justice Long and Paine, neither of whom seems (for I have carefully compared the two) to have seen the composition of the other; nor need it be wondered at by those who recall that, so recently as 1888, a Welsh jury ordered the destruction of a gun which had killed a man. (Folklore, March, 1895, p. 70.) There is little doubt that this piece, like the Song on Wolfe, was written by Paine to amuse his fellows of the Headstrong Club, at Lewes, where he resided until the autumn of 1774. It was first printed in the Pennsylvania Magazine (edited by Paine), July, 1775.—Editor.

[1]In the Introduction to the Pennsylvania Magazine, No. 1, it was said that “like the snowdrop it comes forth in a barren season, and contents itself with foretelling that choicer flowers are preparing to appear.” Paine was the Editor, and wrote both the Introduction and this poetic response.—Editor.

[1]The British Commander to whom Paine addressed “Crisis No. II.,” January 13, 1777.—Editor.

[1]Washington.—Editor.

[1]Addressed to Lady Smyth (see vol. iii., chap. 27). While in prison in Paris, Paine received sympathetic letters from “The Little Corner of the World.” He responded from “The Castle in the Air,” and afterwards found her to be Lady Smyth.—Editor.

[7]1802. I found these lines among some manuscripts of William Cobbett.—Editor.

[8]President Jefferson.—Editor.

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APPENDIX K.: THE SNOWDROP AND THE CRITIC, 1 To the Editor of the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775. - Thomas Paine, The Writings of Thomas Paine, Vol. IV (1791-1804) [1791]

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APPENDIX K.

SONGS AND RHYMES. THE DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.1

FARMER SHORT’S DOG PORTER. A TALE.1

THE SNOWDROP AND THE CRITIC,1To the Editor of the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.

THE MONK AND THE JEW.

IMPROMPTU ON BACHELORS’ HALL,

LIBERTY TREE.

AN ADDRESS TO LORD HOWE.1

THE BOSTON PATRIOTIC SONG.

HAIL GREAT REPUBLIC.

COLUMBIA.

FROM THE CASTLE IN THE AIR, TO THE LITTLE CORNER OF THE WORLD.1

TO SIR ROBERT SMYTH.

CONTENTMENT; OR, IF YOU PLEASE, CONFESSION.

ON A LONG-NOSED FRIEND.

A FEDERALIST FEAST.7

LINES EXTEMPORE.

THE STRANGE STORY OF KORAH, DATHAN, AND ABIRAM.

A COMMENTARY ON THE EASTERN WISE MEN,

SONGS AND RHYMES.
THE DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.1

THE SNOWDROP AND THE CRITIC,1
To the Editor of the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.