Classic Poem

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
In vain has [Franklin's] artifice been tried,
And Louis swell'd with treachery and pride:
Who reigns supreme in heav'n deception spurns,
And on the author's head the mischief turns.
What pains were taken to procure D'Estaing!
His fleet's dispers'd, and Congress may go hang.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
Heav'ns King sends forth the hurricane and strips
Of all their glory the perfidious ships.
His Ministers of Wrath the storm direct;
Nor can the Prince of Air his French protect.
Saint George, Saint David show'd themselves true hearts;
Saint Andrew and Saint Patrick topp'd their parts.
With right Eolian puffs the wind they blew;
Crack went the masts; the sails to shivers flew.
Such honest Saints shall never be forgot;
Saint Dennis, and Saint Tammany, go rot.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold;
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
Old Satan holds a council in mid-air;
Hear the black Dragon furious rage and swear —
— Are these the triumphs of my Gallic friends?
How will you ward this blow, my trusty fiends?
What remedy for this unlucky job?
What art shall raise the spirits of the mob?
Fly swist, ye sure supporters of my realm,
Ere this ill-news the rebels overwhelm.
Invent, say any thing to make them mad;
Tell them the King — No, Dev'ls are not so bad;
The dogs of Congress at the King let loose;
But ye, brave Dev'ls, avoid such mean abuse.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
What thinks Sir Washington of this mischance;
Blames he not those, who put their trust in France?
A broken reed comes pat into his mind:
Egypt and France by rushes are defin'd,
Basest of Kingdoms underneath the skies,
Kingdoms that could not profit their allies.
How could the tempest play him such a prank?
Blank is his prospect, and his visage blank:
Why from West-Point his armies has he brought?
Can nought be done? — sore sighs he at the thought.
Back to his mountains Washington may trot:
He take this city — yes, when Ice is hot.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
Ah, poor militia of the Jersey State,
Your hopes are bootless, you are come too late.
Your four hours plunder of New-York is fled,
And grievous hunger haunts you in its stead.
Sorrow and sighing seize the Yankee race,
When the brave Briton looks them in the face:
The brawny Hessian, the bold Refugee,
Appear in arms, and lo! the rebels flee;
Each in his bowels griping spankue feels;
Each drops his haversack, and trusts his heels.
Scamp'ring and scouring o'er the fields they run,
And here you find a sword, and there a gun.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold;
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
The doleful tidings Philadelphia reach,
And Duffield cries — The wicked make a breach!
Members of Congress in confusion meet,
And with pale countenance each other greet.
— No comfort, brother? — Brother, none at all.
Fall'n is our tower; yea, broken down our wall.
Oh brother! things are at a dreadful pass:
Brother, we sinn'd in going to the Mass.
The Lord, who taught our fingers how to fight,
For this denied to curb the tempest's might:
Our paper coin refus'd for flour we see,
And lawyers will not take it for a fee.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
What caus'd the French from Parker's fleet to steal?
They wanted thirty thousand casks of meal.
Where are they now — can mortal man reply?
Who finds them out must have a Lynx's eye.
Some place them in the ports of Chesapeak;
Others account them bound to Martinique;
Some think to Boston they intend to go;
And some suppose them in the deep below.
One thing is certain, be they where they will,
They keep their triumph most exceeding still.
They have not even Pantagruel's luck,
Who conquer'd two old women and a duck.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
How long shall the deluded people look
For the French squadron moor'd at Sandy Hook?
Of all their hopes the comfort and the stay,
This vile deceit at length must pass away.
What imposition can be thought on next,
To cheer their partizans, with doubt perplex'd?
Dollars on dollars heap'd up to the skies,
Their value sinks the more, the more they rise;
Bank notes of bankrupts, struck without a fund,
Puff'd for a season, will at last be shunn'd.
Call forth invention, ye renown'd in guile;
New falsehoods frame in matter, and in style;
Send some enormous fiction to the press;
Again prepare the circular address;
With lies, with nonsense, keep the people drunk:
For should they once reflect, your power is sunk.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
The farce of empire will be finish'd soon,
And each mock-monarch dwindle to a loon.
Mock-money and mock-states shall melt away,
And the mock-troops disband for want of pay.
Ev'n now decisive ruin is prepar'd:
Ev'n now the heart of Huntington is scar'd.
Seen or unseen, on earth, above, below,
All things conspire to give the final blow,
Heaven has ten thousand thunderbolts to dart;
From Hell, ten thousand livid flames will start;
Myriads of swords are ready for the field;
Myriads of lurking daggers are conceal'd;
In injur'd bosoms dark revenge is nurst;
Yet but a moment, and the storm shall burst.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
Now War, suspended by the scorching heat,
Springs from his tent, and shines in arms complete.
Now Sickness, that of late made heroes pale,
Flies from the keenness of the northern gale.
Firmness and Enterprize, united, wait
The last command, to strike the stroke of Fate.
Now Boston trembles; Philadelphia quakes;
And Carolina to the center shakes.
There is, whose councils the just moment scan:
Whose wisdom meditates the mighty plan:
He, when the season is mature, shall speak;
All Heaven shall plaud him, and all Hell shall shriek.
At his dread fiat tumult shall retire;
Abhorr'd rebellion sicken and expire;
The fall of Congress prove the world's relief;
And deathless glory crown the god-like Chief!

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
What now is left of Continental brags?
Taxes unpaid, tho' payable in rags.
What now remains of Continental force?
Battalions mould'ring: Waste without resource.

What rests there yet of Continental Sway?
A ruin'd People, ripe to disobey.
Hate now of men, and soon to be the Jest;
Such is your fate, ye Monsters of the West!
Yet must on every face a smile be worn,
While every breast with agony is torn.
Hopeless yourselves, yet hope you must impart,
And comfort others with an aching heart.
Ill-fated they who, lost at home, must boast
Of help expected from a foreign coast:
How wretched is their lot, to France and Spain
Who look for succour, but who look in vain.

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold:
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd!
Courage, my boys; dismiss your chilling fears:
Attend to me, I'll put you in your geers.
Come, I'll instruct you how to advertize
Your missing friends, your hide-and-seek Allies.
O YES! — If any man alive will bring
News of the squadron of the Christian King:
If any man will find out Count D'Estaing,
With whose scrub actions both the Indies rang:
If any man will ascertain on oath
What has become of Monsieur de la Mothe:
Whoever these important points explains,
Congress will nobly pay him for his pains,
Of pewter dollars, what both hands can hold,
A thimble-full of plate, a mite of gold;
The lands of some big Tory he shall get,
And start a famous Colonel en brevet:
And last to honour him (we scorn to bribe)
We'll make him chief of the Oneida Tribe!