Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-One

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.