Classic Poem

I.

I F life's a rough journey, as moralists tell,
 Englishmen sure make the best on't;
On this spot of the earth they bade Liberty dwell,
 Whilst Slavery holds all the rest on't;
They thought the best solace for labour and care,
 Was a state independent and free, Sir;
And this thought, tho' a curse that no tyrant can bear,
 Is the blessing of you and of me, Sir.
  Then while thro' this whirlabout journey we reel,
  We'll keep unabus'd the best blessing we feel;
  And watch ev'ry turn of the politic wheel:
   Billy's too young to drive us.

II.

The car of Britannia, we all must allow,
 Is ready to crack with its load, Sir:
And, wanting the hand of experience, will now
 Most surely break down on the road, Sir!
Then must we, poor passengers, quietly wait
 To be crush'd by this mischievous spark, Sir,
Who drives a damn'd job in the carriage of state,
 And got up like a thief in the dark , Sir?
  Then while thro' this whirlabout journey we reel,
 We'll keep unabus'd the best blessing we feel,
  And watch ev'ry turn of the politic wheel;
   Billy's too young to drive us.

III.

They say that his judgment is mellow and pure,
 And his principles Virtue's own type, Sir:
I believe, from my soul, he's a son of a w——re,
 And his judgment more rotten than ripe, Sir;
For all that he boasts of, what is it, in truth,
 But that mad with ambition and pride, Sir;
He's the vices of age for the follies of youth,
 And a damn'd deal of cunning beside, Sir.
Then while thro' this whirlabout journey we reel,
We'll keep unabus'd the best blessing we feel,
And watch ev'ry turn of the politic wheel;
 Billy's too young to drive us.

IV.

The Squires, whose reason ne'er reaches a span,
 Are all with this prodigy struck, Sir,
And cry, “'Tis a crime not to vote for a man
 “Who's as chaste as a baby at suck, Sir!”
But pray, let me ask, had his virtue prevail'd,
 What soul would to heaven come near Sir?
Not one; for the whole generation had fail'd,
 And God's creatures had never been here, Sir.
  Then while thro' this whirlabout journey we reel,
  We'll keep unabus'd the best blessing we feel,
  And watch ev'ry turn of the politic wheel;
   Billy's too young to drive us.

V.

It's true, he's a pretty good gift of the gab,
 And was taught by his dad on a stool, Sir;
But tho' at a speech he's a bit of a dab,
 In the state he's a bit of a tool, Sir.
For Billy's pure love for his country was such,
 He agreed to become the cat's paw, Sir!
And sits at the helm, while it's turn'd by the touch
 Of a reprobate fiend of the law, Sir!
  Then while thro' this whirlabout journey we reel,
  We'll keep unabus'd the best blessing we feel,
  And watch ev'ry turn of the politic wheel;
   Billy's too young to drive us.

VI.

Tho' reason united a N—h and a F—x,
 The world of this junction complain, Sir:
But what's that to his, who join'd with a pox
 To the cabinet pimp of the Thane, Sir!
Who sold to a high-flying Jacobite gang
 The credit of Chatham's great name, Sir!
That pleas'd, we might hear the Young Puppet harangue,
 While J—nk—s—n plays the old game, Sir!
 Then while thro' this whirlabout journey we feel,
 We'll keep unabus'd the best blessing we feel,
 And watch ev'ry turn of the politic wheel;
  Billy's too young to drive us.

VII.

They say, his fine parts are a mighty good prop
 To push up Britannia's affairs, Sir!
But, we all of us know, tho' he stand at her top,
 Her bottom will die in despair , Sir!
Then with Freemen, who on a fair bottom would tread,
 Here's a toast, that I'm sure must prevail, Sir!
Britannia! and May he ne'er stand at her Head
  Who never can STAND at her T—l, Sir!
  Then while thro' this whirlabout journey we reel,
  We'll keep unabus'd the best blessing we feel,
  And watch ev'ry turn of the politic wheel;
   Billy's too young to drive us.