html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Are we not all of race divine,
Alike of an immortal line?
Shall man to man afford derision,
But for some casual division,
To malice and to mischief prone,
From climate, canton, or from zone?
Are all to idle discord bent,
These Kentish men, those men of Kent,
And parties and distinction make
For parties and distinction sake?
Souls sprung from an æthereal flame,
However clad, are still the same;
Nor should we judge the heart or head,
By air we breathe, or earth we tread.
Dame Nature, who, all meritorious,
In a true Englishman is glorious,
Is lively, honest, brave, and bonny,
In Monsieur, Taffy, Teague, and Sawny.
Give prejudices to the wind,
And let's be patriots to mankind.
Bigots, avaunt! Sense can't endure ye,
But Fabulists should try to cure ye.
A snub-nos'd dog to fat inclin'd,
Of the true hogan-mogan kind,
The fav'rite of an English dame,
Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name.
One morning as he chanc'd to range,
Met honest Towzer on the change,
And who have we got here, I beg?
Quoth he,―and lifted up his leg;
An English dog can't take an airing
But foreign scoundrels must be staring.
I'd have your French, and all your Spanish,
And all the Dutch, and all the Danish,
By which our species is confounded,
Be hang'd, be poison'd, or be drowned.
Well, of all dogs it is confess'd,
Your English bull-dogs are the best.
I say it, and will set my hand to't,
Camden records it, and I'll stand to't.
'Tis true, we have too much urbanity,
Are overcharg'd with soft humanity.
The best things must find food for railing,
And ev'ry creature has its failing.
And who are you, reply'd Van Trump,
(Curling his tail upon his rump)
Vaunting the regions of distraction,
The land of party and of faction?
In all fair Europe who but we
For national œconomy,
For wealth and peace, that have more charms
Than learned arts, or noisy arms?
You envy us our dancing bogs,
With all the music of the frogs,
Join'd to the Tretchscutz, bonny loon,
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune;
For poets, and the muses nine,
Beyond comparison we shine;
Oh! how we warble in our gizzards,
With XX's, HH's, and with ZZ's.
For fighting―now you think I'm joking,
We love it better far than smoaking;
Ask but our troops from man to boy,
Who all surviv'd at Fontenoy;
'Tis true as friends, and as allies,
We're ever ready to devise
Our love, or any kind assistance
That may be granted at a distance;
And if you go to brag, good bye to'ye,
Nor dare to brave the high and mighty.
Wrong are you both, rejoins a Quail,
Confin'd within its wirey jail;
Frequent from realm to realm I've rang'd,
And with the seasons, climates chang'd.
Mankind is not so void of grace,
But good I've found in ev'ry place.
I've seen sincerity in France,
Among the Germans complaisance;
In foggy Holland wit may reign,
I've known humility in Spain:
Freed was I by a turban'd Turk,
Whose life was one entire good work;
And in this land, fair Freedom's boast,
Behold my liberty is lost.
Despis'd Hibernia have I seen,
Dejected like a widow'd queen,
Her robe, with dignity long worn,
And cap of liberty were torn,
Her broken fife and harp unstrung,
On the uncultur'd ground were flung,
Down lay her spear, defil'd with rust,
And book of learning in the dust.
Her loyalty still blameless found,
And hospitality renown'd,
No more the voice of fame engross'd,
In discontent and clamour lost.
Ah! dire Corruption, art thou spread
Where never viper rear'd its head?
And did'st thy baleful influence sow
Where hemlock nor the night-shade grow?
Hapless, disconsolate, and brave,
Hibernia, who'll Hibernia save?
Who shall assist thee in thy woe?
Who ward from thee the fatal blow?
'Tis done, the glorious work is done,
All thanks to Heav'n and Hartington.