Classic Poem

SURE , Master J HON Bull , I shan't know till I'm dead,
Where the devil you're driving to, a-se over head!
Troth, I've watch'd you, my dear, day and night, like a cat;
And, bad luck to myself, if I know what you're at .

But, the reason you waste all this blood, and this gold,
Is a secret , they say — that can never be told:
To be sure, for such secrets my tongue is n't fit;
For I can't keep it still, without speaking a bit.

Faith, and well I may speak now, for — hark ye, dear joy!
Tho' you say, it's your Country the French would destroy.
Since you do it yourselves , they may let it alone —
And mine may be taken, instead of your own .

Britain's car, John , I told you, would break with foul knocks,
When this job-boy of J ENKY'S crept up to the box:
Troth, he stole there, to drive you — the devil knows how!
But no devil can tell, where he's driving you now .

You pay all, and fight all — and lose all, they say:
Now, don't you think, John , that's quite out of the way?
Faith, your very Allies feel so hurt on that score,
That they scorn to stand by you, and help any more .

And these foreigners, too, have a whim in their head —
That the more they neglect ye, the more they'll be paid:
Sure they say that your King, now they've left him alone ,
Will bribe 'em, and feed 'em, to fight for their own .

Devil burn 'em, to say such a Heathenish thing,
Of a wise, decent, generous, church going King!
To fill foreign mouths, will he pinch from the poor's? —
And tax the last scrap , for Croats and Pandours?

Oh, John ! these connections with Goths, and with Huns,
Was ever the curse of your isle and her sons!
If you knew when you're well, you'd stand fast on your ground,
And, at any one end on't, you'd face the world round.

But to set out a tilting, and shake your weak lance.
Against millions of men, arm'd for Freedom , in France,
Was a twist in your head, Master Bull , d'ye see —
Mighty strange in your nation, that made itself free .

But your foes, my dear John , say your brains are of lead —
That the fog of your island's ne'er out of your head
That alike you misjudge of good measures or bad,
And are stupidly drowsy — or wilfully mad!

By my soul, John , I've study'd your nature awhile;
And I think, when they so, they don't miss a mile;
The world's wide, to be sure; but, as intellects go,
You're as clumsey and bother'd a beast as I know.

Don't you think it's pretty, political touch —
To keep shooting your gold in the damms of the Dutch?
Sending troops to be swamp'd , where they can't draw their breath? —
And buying a load of fresh taxes with death?

Then, your friends , who've been sucking the sap of your skull ,
Now choose to be fed on your fat , Master Bull !
Oh! your whisker-mouth'd Prussian's a hell of a bite —
And your Eagle of Austria's a damnable Kite!

Like the Jay in the fable, all pluck you, good John ?
But the whole mean to show you their tails , when they've done.
Oh! 'twill please you to see, when they all have a feather ,
How they'll push forth their wings — and go off altogether .

Then comes the account, John : and faith, to be frank,
The cost is unbounded; the credit — a blank!
It's a right Flemish bargain, where all you can claim,
Is a plentiful balance of — taxes and shame .

But, when substance is gone, John , one blessing remains —
We prize little things, and we count little gains;
Thus, tho' broke down by burthens, to lighten mishap,
You've a feather or two , John , to stick in your cap .

Yes! Laurels you have, John , to tickle your car —
For you've conquer'd a Corsican mountain, I hear;
And the Caribbee Laurels — Oh fortunate lot!
You've reap'd, and a fine yellow harvest you've got.

Then, a wond'rous magnanimous boast, too, is yours:
With no reason on earth, to bring war to your doors.
You, regardless of policy , safety , or pelf ,
Have paid all the world's damage , and beggar'd yourself .

Faith, your tax-burthen'd sons, John , will bless the dark hour
When the war-whoop of Kings , and the squeakings of pow'r ,
Made a nation of Freemen the clamour applaud —
And load-their own necks to chain monsters abroad.

Oh! to what will it come, John — this guilty affair?
For all acts of your State are, now, acts of despair :
Like spendthrifts undone, ever frantic they seem;
And widen that ruin they cannot redeem.

Big curses by day, ay, and bigger by night,
On the J ENKY -nurs'd Jackall, that brought on this plight! —
Who has stalk'd on Court stilts to that ruinous brink,
Where 'tis hopeless to move — and more hopeless to think.

A while your brave tars , the great prop of your State ,
Have, by glory and conquest, John , put off your fate;
But, if e'er on French decks , shouts of victory roar ,
The Crown's a Red Night-cap — and Britain's no more.

Troth, the Cur was well warn'd of War's desperate sin,
When, with headlong presumption, he hurry'd you in.
The voice of sound wisdom cry'd loud on the curse:
But wisdom was wind , to the voice of the nurse .

But the slave will soon see on what sand he has built ;
For the virtues of Freemen NOW wake on his guilt:
They at length see the storm , and with horror refuse
To cut up the country — for Cabinet views .

Too long, John , I've told you, the helm would break down,
With this foul-going Pilot , that steers for the Crown .
But, I've done; for, now , ruin hangs over the elf:
So, good luck to your king — and long life to yourself.