Classic Poem

To thee—rude warrior, whom we once admired,
And thought thy actions spoke thee half-inspired,
While justice held the balance of thy cause,
And every language sounded thy applause;
But since ambition and revenge prevails,
Thy glories languish, and our wonder fails—
To thee a woman sends with generous care,
And warns thy rashness timely to beware.

Fame now a tale of fresher date has told,
Beyond thy mad romantic feats of old:
Our malcontents thy numerous squadrons boast,
Describe thy pennants waving on our coast,
And, to the fearful, cry ‘Britannia's lost!’
But we, who know the genius of our isle,
At their report, and thy invasion, smile.

Are not our dames in every climate famed,
Les Belles Angloises by every nation named?
Are not our youth in foreign fields admired,
Alike by valour and by love inspired?
And shall those fair ones, who the morning pass
Consulting that dear friend to love, the glass—
To set the favourite, and the patch to place,
To bow, and glance it, with becoming grace
To melt the hero's heart, and charm his eyes—
Fall to thy Gothic rage a sacrifice?
No, to thy terror learn, our British youth
Are famed for honour, constancy and truth:
Each would as soon consent thy cause to aid,
As yield the fair to whom his vows are paid.
Unlike the passive females of thy land,
The arbitrators of the war we stand.
At flirt of fan our armèd legions fly,
And they who dare offend, must dare to die.
We know thy daring heart is nursed in blood,
Wild as the fiercest savage of the wood;
With fame like this, in northern slaughter shine,
Rough as the frozen bear, thy neighbouring sign;
But here thy brutal force no crowns shall gain:
By love, as well as arms, our monarchs reign;
Can we our George and his loved race disown,
To find thy barren chastity a throne?

No! in thy shaggy rug rude slumbers take,
And dream of conquests thou shalt never make;
At distance be thy leathern doublet worn,
Nor risk thy life to purchase certain scorn;
For now the wormwood damsels apprehend
The dismal consequences of such a friend:
Begin to tremble at the truths they hear,
And vow their champions shall for George declare;
They fear thy taste should lead young James astray,
And quite unman their monarch every way:
In his excuse they still would have to tell,
‘Though war's his foe, he loves exceeding well;
The proof from whence he sprung is not to fight;
His surgeon proves hereditary right.’

But if by thy example he should grow
Cold as thy rocks of ice, and hills of snow;
Should he clean linen hold in dire disgrace,
And sable crape his ivory neck enchase;
Should he, like thee, on shives of coarsest bread
Rudely with dirty thumbs his butter spread;
Banish the generous juice of grapes away,
And with small acid tiff his thirst allay;
Swallow lean hasty meals of tasteless roots,
And eat, and drink, and live, and reign in boots;
Should he, like thee, regardless of the fair,
Lie down to sleep, and only wake to war;
Could he in arms like gallant Brunswick shine—
Yet would his female friends his cause decline,
Nor justify a Right so slovenly Divine.

Consult thy safety; send no armies forth
Beyond the confines of thy frozen north:
Since of our British fair this truth is told,
We love the chaste, but we abhor the cold:
But if thy daring folly will proceed,
Fate drives thee forward, and thy fall's decreed.