What wild commotions shake our age!
Religion's ftorm-then party's rage;
-A dead calm of a fudden !

Each feafon fhoots out fomething new;
Alarms we must have, falfe or true,
Or John can't eat his pudden.

Bibles we faw crown G-rd-n's head,

Mad treafon fire her M-nf-Id's bed;

Lords---Commons---foldiers gaze!!

Thro' every treet No Popery rings,
Whilft pious Wilkes, like Simeon, fings,
To fee the King's Bench blaze!

Ah, where was mighty Cæfar then?
-The best of kings---the best of men,
With legs all arm'd in leather;
'Tho' round him Franklin's fire-balls flew,
Hyde Park St. James's faw him too.
On horfeback in hot weather!!

Am--rft, who joys in dire alarms,
Step'd forth;---beef-eaters flew to arms,
And Hotfpur Jeff grew vain:

-The guards he lodg'd in King's-Place ftews,
In Pudding Alley, the Horfe Blues;

-His poft---Blow-bladder Lane.

From

*

From courtiers burst those flaming ills;
And Patriots, brib'd by Congrefs bills,
Were ripe for revolution!

t

-A fpell at length a Scotch † witch threw ;
The army, conftables all grew,

And fav'd the Constitution.

Now, for more Knights each county cries!
As those they have a❜n't very wife,
The cause of all our forrows;

This point Old Sarum's Pitt will touch,
Whilft young Will'--lights his father's crutch
To fire the rotten Boroughs.

But left ftate creditors should fqueak,
Let Sh-lb-ne fave the ftate, and break

Th' ungrateful Dutch, confound them!
-As reynard wife, he'll trick fuch foes,,
Who lur'd the fleas up to his nofe,

Then took a plunge and drown'd them.

Fitzmaurice still hall grace my lays,
No dupe, like North, to public praise,

* Lord Shelburne proved this beyond a poffibility of doubt in his excellent speech on that occafion.

† Lord Mansfield's doctrine, that every soldier, by the common law of England, has a right to use his musket and bayonet for the preservation of the peace, any thing therein contained to the contrary thereof notwithstanding.

Parts-

Parts-honour---wit---miscarry :

Low at his feet kneel Fox and Burke,
Whilft Dund-s fhakes his brazen dirk,
And flings his targe o'er Barré *.

THE HEN AND THE GOLDEN EGGS, A FABLE.

ADDRESSED TO THE MINISTER.

HAD Afop been living, what mortal so able
To write your Gazettes? as he dealt much in fable:
Yet tho' he is dead, he can be your adviser

Read one of his fables, 'twill make you much wifer. A hen, we are told,

Laid an egg that was gold

Each day to her mistress and master;
But the cormorant crew

Thought one egg too few,

So they figh'd that she did not lay faster.
Their hearts were form'd of ministerial steel;

They had no feeling but what hands can feel.
With fhame I must tell ye,

They ripp'd up her belly,

To rifle a mine full of ore;

But the hen being dead,

It need not be faid,

They found that she could not lay more.

* Ut pictura poefis,-A print of this fpirited attack will be

speedily published.

The

The force of this fable, and its application,
Is felt by your Lordship, as well as the nation;
Neither you nor your gang, I am fure, need be told,
That America yielded her tribute of gold.

Had you liften'd to Penn,

And fofter'd your hen,

What regular wealth would have flow'd from her then!

But your ravenous crew,

Not content with their due,

Deftroy'd the poor bird where for refuge she flew. The mufe from your folly this confequence gathers; Thofe who murder'd the fowl, will be choak'd with the feathers.

C. W.

AMERICAN EPIGRA M. *

SOME mice deep intrench'd in a rich Cheshire cheese, Grimalkin long wish'd to devour ;

Secure, from their numbers, they liv'd at their eafe, And bravely defied all his power.

In vain all the day he fat watching their holes,
All his tricks and his force were in vain;
Each effort convinc'd him the vermin had fouls,
Determin'd their cheese to maintain.

From a Bofton news-paper, printed in October, 1775,
Grimalkin,

Grimalkin, deep vers'd in political schools,
Affected the fiege to give o'er,

Suppofing the mice were fuch ignorant fools,
They would venture abroad as before.

But as he retreated, a fpirited mouse,
Whom time had bedappl'd with grey
Cry'd, "All your fineffe we don't value a fous,
"No more to your cunning a prey.

"This cheese by poffeffion we claim as our own,
"Fair Freedom the claim doth approve;
"Our wants are but few, and her bleffings alone
Safficient those wants to remove.

"No cat will we own, with ambition run mad, "For our King so move off in a trice; "If we find, from exper'ence, a King must be had "That King fhall be chofe by the Mice."

THE SAILOR's ADDRESS.

[To the Tune of Hearts of Oak.]

I.

COME liften, my cocks, to a brother and friend;
One and all to my fong, gallant failors, attend:
Sons of freedom ourselves, let's be juft as we're brave,
Nor America's freedom attempt to enslave.

Chorus.