Tune, — Old Sir Simon the King.

Come boys let us sign the petition,
To make the poor Africans free,
For ruin has been their condition,
Since Europe began to drink Tea.
Proud Princes are a' crazy turning,
In striving to lead us agee,
By capeseizing night into morning,
When gambling and drinking at Tea.

Chorus .

I'm tired of the cackle of women,
At home and in politics too
(Of — Labour — and — Liberal — too),
Of the clack-clack-clack-clacker and screamer,
Of the yell, and the Pouter Goo-Goo.
I am tired of the Fearsome Ill-Treated —
You hear of her everywhere;
And the Cool One that talks on a platform
Two hours without turning a hair.

She cares not a curse for her country,
She cares not a damn for a cause;
She knows what a female baboon does
Of politics, justice or laws.
'Tis NOTICE she craves for her antics,

Miss
Lovely, sweet, attracting Fair,
O what a Form! that matchless Air!
Rapture fires my glowing Breast,
Replete stand all thy Charms confest;
Ev'ry Feature floats in View,
To Extasy of Thought, how new!
Thee, Venus Laughter-loving Dame,
Adding all thy sprightly Train;

Here your very Self's display'd,
Under Form of this sweet Maid;
To fly is vain; the barbed Dart,
Cast from those Eyes, assails my Heart;
Heav'n-born Fair thee I invoke,
In Pity let me 'scape the Stroke;
Never on me direct a Ray,

Upon being inform'd that H IRCUS had sent in Quest of the Author, immediately upon receiving a Letter of the most poignant Accusation, touching his execrable Life, &c.

" Why let the stricken Deer go weep, " I find
My Prose Attack has gall'd him to my Mind;
Not quite so callous as I thought — that's well;
But yet I deem him still an Infidel:
Let him discard his Trull, then sneak away,
E'en I may be his Friend, some future Day.

He wears no armour, he bears no crest,
No high hopes swell in his manly breast;
He is not plighted to ladye fair
(Though Liz of the factory may be there);
He hath not given his knightly word,
Nor taken an oath on his knightly sword.
No princelings ride in his glittering train,
For he's Ginger Smith of the Red Rock Lane.

He is not a pirate of days gone by,
Who holds his crew with an eagle eye;
He is no smuggler of lace and rum —
Though he might have had dealings in opium.
No loyalist, rebel, or bandit, he;

Give ear, brother fools; you who Lawyers encourage,
 And bring your own family to misery,
When you're forc'd to jail, there your fortunes to forage,
 While you support them up in high dignity,

No wonder these vermin now shine in their coaches
 For their ay crying give, give, like greedy horseleeches,
For the devil a coin they have left in my breeches,
 Tho't was but a cat that began this curs'd plea .

My dog and I went on a hunting excursion,
 And finding no prey, then he worried a cat,
Her owner he swore with a loud exclamation,

An Extempore Answer to an Invitation from some Ladies to the Author, to spend the Afternoon with 'em, " if he could throw away his Time on two such insipid Mortals, " as they term'd themselves .

Your Greetings have this Moment reach'd my Hand,
By which the Ladies Pleasure I command
Next Wednesday; 'tis well, I will be there;
(Full twenty Years in Love's Account, my Fair!)
But what Injustice to yourselves to say,
(Not think I trust) " if you can throw away,
With two insipid Mortals such as we,
Your Ev'ning, " and for what? A Dish of Tea!

A voice is on our hills,
And it echoes far at sea:
With a quickening power it fills
Every heart, and inly thrills,—
'T is the voice of Liberty.

A glance darts from yon cloud,
And it frights thee, tyrant,—thee;
But the freeman rises proud,
And his sire stirs in his shroud,—
'T is the glance of Liberty.

A warning calls at night:
“Nations, rouse ye, and be free.”
They hear it with delight,
But the monarch looks affright,—
'T is thy warning, Liberty.

There 's a presence in the air,

Supposed to be wrote by a Lady.

Sweet-scented Sir, excuse a real Friend,
A Female, too, who fain would see you mend;
And thro' that laudable Design, presumes
To give Advice; not flavour'd with Perfumes;
But with Sincerity of Heart steps forth,
To render you, perhaps, a Man of Worth:
Mistake me not; it is no worldly Pelf,
We know you've that — I'm speaking of Yourself ;
Discard that petit maitre air ; I vow,
You're like a Puppet at a Raree Shew,
Which guided only by the Master Wires,
Moves up and down, and as the Shew requires,

When first from the land of the tyrant and slave
Our forefathers ventured to cross the wide ocean,
They kneeled as they came from the perilous wave,
And uttered their vows with an earnest devotion:
Bright Spirit! in thee
We will ever be free,
While thy sun gives its light
To the land and the sea,
And here on the storm-beaten rock we unite
To conquer or die for our God and our right.

Then deep in their bosoms they nourished the flame
That burst from their hearts in the moment of danger,
When proudly the minion of tyranny came,