Classic Poem

Since faction ebbs, and rogues grow out of fashion,
Their penny-scribes take care t' inform the nation
How well men thrive in this or that plantation;

How Pennsylvania's air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina's with Associators:
Both e'en too good for madmen and for traitors.

Truth is, our land with saints is so run o'er,
And every age produces such a store,
That now there's need of two New Englands more.

What's this, you'll say, to us and our vocation?
Only thus much, that we have left our station
And made this theatre our new plantation.

The factious natives never could agree,
But aiming, as they called it, to be free,
Those playhouse Whigs set up for property.

Some say they no obedience paid of late,
But would new fears and jealousies create,
Till topsy-turvey they had turned the state.

Plain sense without the talent of foretelling
Might guess 'twould end in downright knocks and quelling:
For seldom comes there better of rebelling.

When men will needlessly their freedom barter
For lawless power, sometimes they catch a Tartar:
(There's a damned word that rhymes to this called " charter").

But since the victory with us remains,
You shall be called to twelve in all our gains,
If you'll not think us saucy for our pains.

Old men shall have good old plays to delight 'em,
And you, fair ladies and gallants that slight 'em,
We'll treat with good new plays, if our new wits can write 'em.

We'll take no blundering verse, no fustian tumour,
No dribbling love from this or that presumer;
No dull fat fool shammed on the stage for humour.

For, faith, some of 'em such vile stuff have made
As none but fools or fairies ever played;
But 'twas, as shopmen say, to force a trade.

We've giv'n you tragedies, all sense defying,
And singing men in woeful metre dying;
This 'tis when heavy lubbers will be flying.

All these disasters we well hope to weather;
We bring you none of our old lumber hether:
Whig poets and Whig sheriffs may hang together.