Great things have pass'd the last revolving year;
France on a curious jaunt has seen her king go,—
Hush'd are the growlings of the Russian bear,
Rebellion has broke loose in St. Domingo—
Sorry we are that Pompeys, Cæsars, Catos
Are mostly found with Negroes and Mulattoes.
Discord, we think, must always be the lot
Of this poor world—nor is that discord vain,
Since, if these feuds and fisty-cuffs were not,
Full many an honest Type would starve—that's plain;
Wars are their gain, whatever cause is found—
Empires—or Cats-skins brought from Nootka-sound.
The Turks, poor fellows! have been sadly baisted—
And many a Christian despot stands, contriving
Who next shall bleed—what country next be wasted—
This is the trade by which they get their living:
From Prussian Frederick, this the general plan
To Empress Kate—that burns the Rights of Man,
The Pope (at Rome) is in a sweat, they tell us;
Of freedom's pipe he cannot bear the music,
And worst of all when Frenchmen blow the bellows,
Enough almost (he thinks) to make a Jew sick:
His Priesthood too, black, yellow, white, and grey,
All think it best to keep—the good old way.
Britain, (fame whispers) has unrigg'd her fleet—
Now tell us what the world will do for thunder?—
Battles, fire, murder, maiming, and defeat
Are at an end when Englishmen knock under:
Sulphur will now in harmless squibs be spent,
Lightning will fall—full twenty five per cent.