No courtiers now their friends deceive
With promises of favor;
For what they made 'em once believe
Is done and done forever.

Our nobles-Heaven defend us all!
I'll nothing say about 'em;
For they are great and I'm but small,
So muse, jog on without 'em.

Our gentry are a virtuous race,
Despising earthly treasures;
Fond of true honor's noble chase,
And quite averse to pleasures.

The ladies dress so plain indeed,
You'd think 'em Quakers all;
Witness the wool-packs on their heads,
So comely and so small.

No tradesman now forsakes his shop,
For politics or news;

Or takes his dealer at a hop
Through interested views.

No soaking sot forsakes his spouse
For mugs of mantling nappy;
Nor taverns tempt him from his house,
Where all are pleased and happy.

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30

Our frugal taste the State secures,
Whence then can woes begin?
For luxury's turned out of doors,
And prudence taken in.

From hence proceeds the abundant flow
Of plenty through the land;
Where all provisions, all men know,
Are cheap on every hand.

No pleasure-chaises fill the streets,
Nor crowd the roads on Sunday;
So horses, ambling through the week,
Obtain a respite one day.

All gaming, tricking, swearing, lying,
Is grown quite out of fashion;
For modern youth's so self-denying
It flies all lawless passion.

Happy the nation thus endowed!
So void of wants and crimes;
Where all are rich and none are proud,
Oh! these are glorious times.

Your characters (with wondering stare
Cries Tom) are mighty high, sir;
But pray forgive me, if I swear,
I think they're all a lie, sir.

Ha! think you so, my honest clown?
Then take another light on't;
Just turn the picture upside down,
I fear you'll see the right on't.

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60

The Freeman's Journal or the New Hampshire Gazette, 1779.

-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 swift, ye sure supporters of my realm, Ere this ill-news the rebels overwhelm. 30 Invent, say anything 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?

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