Canto III: The Liberty-Pole

NOW arm'd with ministerial ire,
Fierce sallied forth our loyal 'Squire,
And on his striding steps attends,
His desperate clan of Tory friends;
When sudden met his angry eye,
A pole ascending thro' the sky,
Which num'rous throngs of Whiggish race
Were raising in the market-place;
Not higher school-boys kites aspire,
Or royal mast or country spire,
Like spears at Brobdignagian tilting,
Or Satan's walking-staff in Milton;
And, on its top the flag unfurl'd,
Wav'd triumph o'er the prostrate world,
Inscrib'd with inconsistent types
Of liberty and thirteen stripes.
Beneath, the croud without delay,
The dedication-rights essay,
And gladly pay in ancient fashion,
The ceremonies of libation;
While briskly to each patriot lip
Walks eager round th' inspiring flip:
Delicious draught, whose pow'rs inherit
The quintessence of public spirit!
Which whoso tastes, perceives his mind
To nobler politics refin'd,
Or rous'd for martial controversy,
As from transforming cups of Circe;
Or warm'd with Homer's nectar'd liquor,
That fill'd the veins of gods with ichor,
At hand for new supplies in store,
The tavern opes its friendly door,
Whence to and fro the waiters run,
Like bucket-men, at fires in town.
Then with three shouts that tore the sky,
'Tis consecrate to Liberty;
To guard it from th' attacks of Tories,
A grand committee cull'd of four is,
Who, foremost on the patriot spot,
Had brought the flip and paid the shot.
By this, M'Fingal, with his train,
Advanc'd upon th' adjacent plain,
And fierce, with loyal rage possess'd,
Pour'd forth the zeal that fir'd his breast.
"What mad-brain'd rebel gave commission,
To raise this May-pole of sedition!
Like Babel rear'd by bawling throngs,
With like confusion too of tongues,
To point at Heav'n, and summon down
The thunders of the British crown?
Say, will this paltry pole secure
Your forfeit heads from Gage's pow'r?
Attack'd by heroes brave and crafty,
Is this to stand your ark of safety?
Or driv'n by Scottish laird and laddie,
Think ye to rest beneath its shaddow?
When bombs, like fiery serpents, fly,
And balls move hissing thro' the sky,
Will this vile pole, devote to freedom,
Save like the Jewish pole in Edom,
Or like the brazen snake of Moses,
Cure your crack'd skulls and batter'd noses?
Ye dupes to ev'ry factious rogue,
Or tavern-prating demagogue,
Whose tongue but rings, with sound more full,
On th' empty drumhead of his skull;
Behold you not what noisy fools
Use you, worse simpletons, for tools?
For Liberty in your own by-sense
Is but for crimes a patent licence;
To break of law th' Egyptian yoke,
And throw the world in common stock,
Reduce all grievances and ills
To Magna Charta of your wills,
Establish cheats and frauds and nonsense,
Fram'd by the model of your conscience,
Cry justice down, as out of fashion,
And fix its scale of depreciation,
Defy all creditors to trouble ye,
And pass new years of Jewish jubilee;
Drive judges out like Aaron's calves,
By jurisdiction of white staves,
And make the bar and bench and steeple,
Submit t' our sov'reign Lord, the People;
Assure each knave his whole assets,
By gen'ral amnesty of debts;
By plunder rise to pow'r and glory,
And brand all property as Tory;
Expose all wares to lawful seizures
Of mobbers and monopolizers;
Break heads and windows and the peace,
For your own int'rest and increase;
Dispute and pray and fight and groan,
For public good and mean your own;
Prevent the laws, by fierce attacks,
From quitting scores upon your backs,
Lay your old dread, the gallows, low,
And seize the stocks your ancient foe;
And turn them as convenient engines
To wreak your patriotic vengeance;
While all, your claims who understand,
Confess they're in the owner's hand:
And when by clamors and confusions,
Your freedom's grown a public nuisance,
Cry, Liberty, with pow'rful yearning,
As he does, fire, whose house is burning,
Tho' he already has much more,
Than he can find occasion for,
While ev'ry dunce, that turns the plains,
Tho' bankrupt in estate and brains,
By this new light transform'd to traitor,
Forsakes his plow, to turn dictator,
Starts an haranguing chief of Whigs,
And drags you by the ears like pigs.
All bluster arm'd with factious licence,
Transform'd at once to politicians;
Each leather-apron'd clown, grown wise,
Presents his forward face t' advise,
And tatter'd legislators meet
From ev'ry work-shop thro' the street;
His goose the taylor finds new use in,
To patch and turn the constitution;
The Blacksmith comes with sledge and grate,
To iron-bind the wheels of state;
The quack forbears his patient's souse,
To purge the Council and the House;
The tinker quits his moulds and doxies,
To cast assembly men at proxies.
From dunghills deep of sable hue,
Your dirt-bred patriots spring to view,
To wealth and pow'r and pension rise,
Like new wing'd maggots chang'd to flies;
And flutt'ring round in proud parade,
Strut in the robe or gay cockade.
See Ar—d quits, for ways more certain,
His bankrupt perj'ries for his fortune;
Brews rum no longer in his store,
Jocky and skipper now no more;
Forsakes his warehouses and docks,
And writs of slander for the pox,
And, purg'd by patriotism from shame,
Grows Gen'ral of the foremost name.
For in this ferment of the stream,
The dregs have work'd up to the brim,
And by the rule of topsy-turvys,
The skum stands swelling on the surface.
You've caus'd your pyramid t' ascend,
And set it on the little end;
Like Hudibras, your empire's made,
Whose crupper had o'er-top'd his head;
You've push'd and turn'd the whole world up-
Side down, and got yourselves a-top:
While all the great ones of your state,
Are crush'd beneath the pop'lar weight;
Nor can you boast this present hour,
The shadow of the form of pow'r.
For what's your Congress , or its end?
A power t' advise and recommend;
To call for troops, adjust your quotas
And yet no soul is bound to notice;
To pawn your faith to th' utmost limit,
But cannot bind you to redeem it,
And when in want, no more in them lies,
Than begging of your State-Assemblies;
Can utter oracles of dread,
Like Friar Bacon's brazen head;
But should a faction e'er dispute 'em,
Has ne'er an arm to execute 'em.
As tho' you chose supreme dictators,
And put them under conservators;
You've but pursu'd the self-same way,
With Shakespeare's Trinclo in the play,
"You shall be viceroys, here, 'tis true,
But we'll be viceroys over you."
What wild confusion hence must ensue,
Tho' common danger yet cements you;
So some wreck'd vessel, all in shatters,
Is held up by surrounding waters,
But stranded, when the pressure ceases,
Falls, by its rottenness, to pieces.
And fall it must—if wars were ended,
You'll ne'er have sense enough to mend it;
But creeping on with low intrigues
Like vermin of an hundred legs,
Will find as short a life assign'd
As all things else of reptile kind.
Your Commonwealth's a common harlot,
The property of ev'ry varlet,
Which now in taste and full employ,
All sorts admire, as all enjoy;
But soon a batter'd strumpet grown,
You'll curse and drum her out of town.
Such is the government you chose,
For this you bade the world be foes,
For this, so mark'd for dissolution,
You scorn the British constitution;
That constitution, form'd by sages,
The wonder of all modern ages:
Which owns no failure in reality,
Except corruption and venality;
And only proves the adage just,
That best things spoil'd, corrupt to worst:
So man, supreme in mortal station,
And mighty lord of this creation,
When once his corse is dead as herring,
Becomes the most offensive carrion,
And sooner breeds the plague, 'tis found,
Than all beasts rotting 'bove the ground.
Yet for this gov'rnment, to dismay us,
You've call'd up Anarchy from Chaos,
With all the followers of her school,
Uproar and Rage and wild Misrule;
For whom this rout of Whigs distracted
And ravings dire of ev'ry crack'd head;
These new-cast legislative engines
Of country-musters and conventions,
Committees vile of correspondence
And mobs, whose tricks have almost undone's;
While reason fails to check your course,
And loyalty's kick'd out of doors,
And folly, like inviting landlord,
Hoists on your poles her royal standard.
While the king's friends in doleful dumps,
Have worn their courage to the stumps,
And leaving George in sad disaster,
Most sinfully deny their master.
What furies rag'd, when you in sea,
In shape of Indians drown'd the tea ,
When your gay sparks, fatigu'd to watch it,
Assumed the moggison and hatchet,
With wampum'd blankets hid their laces,
And, like their sweet-hearts, primed their faces:
While not a Red-coat dar'd oppose,
And scarce a Tory show'd his nose;
While Hutchinson for sure retreat,
Manoeuvred to his country seat,
And thence affrighted in the suds,
Stole off bare-headed thro' the woods!
Have you not rous'd your mobs to join,
And make Mandamus-men resign,
Call'd forth each duffil-dress'd curmudgeon,
With dirty trowsers and white bludgeon,
Forc'd all our Councils thro' the land,
To yield their necks to your command;
While paleness marks their late disgraces
Thro' all their rueful length of faces?
Have you not caus'd as woeful work
In loyal city of New-York ,
When all the rabble well cockaded,
In triumph thro' the streets paraded;
And mobb'd the Tories, scar'd their spouses,
And ransack'd all the custom-houses,
Made such a tumult, bluster, jarring,
That 'mid the clash of tempests warring,
Smith's weathercock, with veers forlorn,
Could hardly tell which way to turn;
Burnt effigies of th' Higher Powers,
Contriv'd in planetary hours,
As witches, with clay-images,
Destroy or torture whom they please;
'Till fir'd with rage, th' ungrateful club
Spar'd not your best friend, Belzebub,
O'er-look'd his favours, and forgot
The rev'rence due t' his cloven foot;
And in the self-same furnace frying,
Burn'd him, and North, and Bute, and Tryon?
Did you not in as vile and shallow way,
Fright our poor Philadelphian, Galloway,
Your Congress when the daring ribald
Belied, berated, and bescribbled?
What ropes and halters did you send,
Terrific emblems of his end,
Till, least he'd hang in more than effigy,
Fled in a fog the trembling refugee?
Now rising in progression fatal,
Have you not ventur'd to give battle?
When treason chac'd our heroes troubled,
With rusty gun and leathern doublet,
Turn'd all stone-walls, and groves, and bushes,
To batt'ries armed with blunderbusses,
And with deep wounds, that fate portend,
Gaul'd many a Reg'lar's latter end,
Drove them to Boston as in jail,
Confin'd without main-prize or bail.
Were not these deeds enough betimes,
To heap the measure of your crimes,
But in this loyal town and dwelling,
You raise these ensigns of rebellion?
'Tis done; fair Mercy shuts her door;
And Vengeance now shall sleep no more;
Rise then, my friends, in terror rise,
And wipe this scandal from the skies!
You'll see their Dagon, tho' well jointed,
Will sink before the Lord's anointed,
And like old Jericho's proud wall,
Before our ram's horns prostrate fall."
This said our 'Squire, yet undismay'd,
Call'd forth the Constable to aid,
And bade him read in nearer station,
The riot-act and proclamation ;
Who, now advancing tow'rd the ring,
Began, "Our sov'reign Lord the King"—
When thousand clam'rous tongues he hears,
And clubs, and stones affail his ears;
To fly was vain, to fight was idle,
By foes encompass'd in the middle;
In stratagem his aid he found,
And fell right craftily to ground;
Then crept to seek an hiding place,
'Twas all he could, beneath a brace;
Where soon the conqu'ring crew espied him,
And where he lurk'd, they caught and tied him.
At once with resolution fatal,
Both Whigs and Tories rush'd to battle;
Instead of weapons, either band
Seiz'd on such arms, as came to hand.
And as fam'd Ovid paints th' adventures
Of wrangling Lapithae and Centaurs,
Who at their feast, by Bacchus led,
Threw bottles at each other's head,
And these arms failing in their scuffles,
Attack'd with hand-irons, tongs, and shovels:
So clubs and billets, staves and stones
Met fierce, encountering every sconce,
And cover'd o'er with knobs and pains
Each void receptacle for brains
Their clamours rend the hills around,
And earth rebellows with the sound;
And many a groan increas'd the din
From broken nose and batter'd shin
M'Fingal, rising at the word,
Drew forth his old militia sword;
Thrice cried, "King George," as erst in distre
Romancing heroes did their mistress,
And, brandishing the blade in air,
Struck terror thro' th' opposing war.
The Whigs unsafe within the wind
Of such commotion shrunk behind.
With whirling steel around address'd,
Fierce thro' their thickest throng he press'd,
(Who roll'd on either side in arch,
Like Red-sea waves in Israel's march)
And like a meteor rushing through,
Struck on their pole a vengeful blow.
Around, the Whigs, of clubs and stones
Discharg'd whole vollies in platoons,
That o'er in whistling terror fly,
But not a foe dares venture nigh.
And now, perhaps, with conquest crown'd,
Our 'Squire had fell'd their pole to ground;
Had not some Pow'r, a Whig at heart,
Descended down and took their part,
(Whether 'twere Pallas, Mars, or Iris,
'Tis scarce worth while to make enquiries,)
Who at the nick of time alarming,
Assum'd the graver form of Chairman;
Address'd a Whig, in ev'ry scene
The stoutest wrestler on the green,
And pointed where the spade was found,
Late us'd to fix the pole in ground,
And urg'd with equal arms and might
To dare our 'Squire to single fight .
The Whig thus arm'd, untaught to yield,
Advanc'd tremendous to the field;
Nor did M'Fingal shun the foe,
But stood to brave the desp'rate blow;
While all the party gaz'd suspended,
To see the deadly combat ended.
And Jove in equal balance weigh'd
The sword against the brandish'd spade,
He weigh'd; but lighter than a dream,
The sword flew up and kick'd the beam.
Our 'Squire on tiptoe rising fair,
Lifts high a noble stroke in air,
Which hung not, but like dreadful engines
Descended on the foe in vengeance.
But ah! in danger with dishonour,
The sword perfidious fails its owner;
That sword, which oft had stood its ground
By huge train-bands encompass'd round,
Or on the bench, with blade right loyal,
Had won the day at many a trial,
Of stones and clubs had brav'd th' alarms,
Shrunk from these new Vulcanian arms.
The spade so temper'd from the sledge,
Nor keen nor solid harm'd its edge,
Now met it from his arm of might
Descending with steep force to smite;
The blade snap'd short—and from his hand
With rust embrown'd the glitt'ring sand.
Swift turn'd M'Fingal at the view,
And call'd for aid th' attendant crew,
In vain; the Tories all had run,
When scarce the fight was well begun;
Their setting wigs he saw decreas'd,
Far in th' horizon tow'rd the west.
Amaz'd he view'd the shameful sight,
And saw no refuge but in flight:
But age unweildy check'd his pace,
Tho' fear had wing'd his flying race;
For not a trifling prize at stake;
No less than great M'Fingal's back.
With legs and arms he work'd his course,
Like rider that outgoes his horse,
And labour'd hard to get away, as
Old Satan struggling on thro' Chaos:
Till, looking back, he spied in rear
The spade arm'd chief advanc'd too near.
Then stopp'd and seiz'd a stone that lay,
An antient land-mark near the way;
Nor shall we, as old Bards have done,
Affirm it weigh'd an hundred ton:
But such a stone as at a shift
A modern might suffice to lift.
Since men, to credit their enigmas,
Are dwindled down to dwarfs and pigmies;
And giants, exil'd with their cronies,
To Brobdingnags and Patagonies.
But while our hero turn'd him round,
And stoop'd to raise it from the ground,
The deadly spade discharg'd a blow
Tremendous on his rear below:
His bent knee fail'd, and void of strength,
Stretch'd on the ground his manly length;
Like antient oak o'er-turn'd he lay,
Or tow'rs to tempests fall'n a prey,
And more things else—but all men know 'em,
If slightly vers'd in Epic Poem.
At once the crew, at this sad crisis,
Fall on, and bind him ere he rises,
And with loud shouts, and joyful soul,
Conduct him pris'ner to the pole.
When now the mob in lucky hour,
Had got their enemies in their pow'r,
They first proceed, by wise command,
To take the constable in hand.
Then from the pole's sublimest top
They speeded to let down the rope,
At once its other end in haste bind,
And make it fast upon his waistband,
Till, like the earth, as stretch'd on tenter,
He hung self balanc'd on his center.
Then upwards, all hands hoisting sail,
They swung him, like a keg of ale;
Till to the pinnacle so fair,
He rose like meteor in the air:
As Socrates of old at first did
To aid philosophy get hoisted,
And found his thoughts flow strangely clear,
Swung in a basket in mid air:
Our culprit thus in purer sky,
With like-advantage rais'd his eye;
And looking forth in prospect wide
His Tory errors clearly spied,
And from his elevated station,
With bawling voice began addressing.
"Good gentlemen, and friends, and kin,
For Heav'n's sake hear, if not for mine!
I here renounce the Pope, the Turks,
The King, the Devil, and all their works;
And will, set me but once at ease,
Turn Whig or Christian, what you please;
And always mind your laws as justly;
Should I live long as old Methus'lah;
I'll never join with British rage,
Nor help Lord North, or Gen'ral Gage,
Nor lift my gun in future fights,
Nor take away your charter'd rights;
Nor overcome your new-rais'd levies,
Destroy your towns, nor burn your navies;
Nor cut your poles down while I've breath,
Tho' rais'd more thick than hatchel teeth:
But leave king George and all his elves
To do their conqu'ring work themselves."
This said, they lower'd him down in state,
Spread at all points, like falling cat;
But took a vote first on the question,
That they'd accept this full confession,
And to their fellowship and favour,
Restore him on his good behaviour.
Not so, our 'Squire submits to rule,
But stood heroic as a mule.
"You'll find it all in vain, quoth he,
To play your rebel tricks on me.
All punishments the world can render,
Serve only to provoke th' offender;
The will's confirm'd by treatment horrid,
As hides grow harder when they're curd.
No man e'er felt the halter draw,
With good opinion of the law;
Or held in method orthodox
His love of justice in the stocks;
Or fail'd to lose by sheriff's shears
At once his loyalty and ears.
Have you made Murray look less big,
Or smoak'd old Williams to a Whig?
Did our mobb'd Oliver quit his station,
Or heed his vows of resignation?
Has Rivington , in dread of stripes,
Ceas'd lying since you stole his types?
And can you think my faith will alter,
By tarring, whipping, or the halter?
I'll stand the worst; for recompence
I trust King George and Providence
And when, our conquest gain'd, I come,
Array'd in law and terror, home,
You'll rue the inauspicious morn,
And curse the day you e'er were born,
In Job's high style of imprecations,
With all his plagues, without his patience."
Meanwhile, beside the pole, the guard
A Bench of Justice had prepar'd,
Where, sitting round in awful sort,
The grand Committee hold their court;
While all the crew, in silent awe,
Wait from their lips the lore of law.
Few moments, with deliberation,
They hold the solemn consultation,
When soon in judgment all agree,
And Clerk declares the dread decree;
"That 'Squire M'Fingal having grown
The vilest Tory in the town,
And now on full examination,
Convicted by his own confession,
Finding no tokens of repentance,
This Court proceed to render sentence:
That first the Mob a slip-knot single
Tie round the neck of said M'Fingal;
And in due form do tar him next,
And feather, as the law directs;
Then thro' the town attendant ride him,
In cart, with Constable beside him;
And having held him up to shame,
Bring to the pole from whence he came."
Forthwith the crowd proceed to deck,
With halter'd noose, M'Fingal's neck,
While he, in peril of his soul,
Stood tied half-hanging to the pole;
Then lifting high the pond'rous jar,
Pour'd o'er his head the smoaking tar:
With less profusion erst was spread
The Jewish oil on royal head,
That down his beard and vestments ran,
And cover'd all his outward man.
As when (so Claudian sings) the gods
And earth-born giants fell at odds,
The stone Enceladus in malice
Tore mountains up to throw at Pallas;
And as he held them o'er his head,
The river from their fountains fed,
Pour'd down his back its copious tide,
And wore its channels in his hide:
So from the high rais'd urn the torrents,
Spread down his side their various currents;
His flowing wig, as next the brim,
First met and drank the sable stream;
Adown his visage, stern and grave,
Roll'd and adhered the viscid wave;
With arms depending as he stood,
Each cuff capacious holds the flood;
From nose and chin's remotest end,
The tarry icicles depend;
Till all o'erspread, with colours gay
He glitter'd to the western ray,
Like sleet-bound trees in wintry skies,
Or Lapland idol carv'd in ice.
And now the feather-bag display'd,
Is wav'd in triumph o'er his head,
And spread him o'er with feathers missive,
And down, upon the tar adhesive:
Not Maia's son, with wings for ears,
Such plumes around his visage wears;
Nor Milton's six-wing'd angel gathers,
Such superfluity of feathers.
Till all compleat appears our 'Squire
Like Gorgon or Chimera dire;
Nor more could boast on Plato's plan
To rank amid the race of man,
Or prove his claim to human nature,
As a two-legg'd, unfeather'd creature.
Then on the two-wheel'd car of state,
They rais'd our grand Duumvirate.
And as at Rome a like committee,
That found an owl within their city,
With solemn rites and sad processions,
At ev'ry shrine perform'd lustrations;
And lest infection should abound,
From prodigy with face so round,
All Rome attends him thro' the street,
In triumph to his country-seat;
With like devotion all the choir
Paraded round our feather'd 'Squire;
In front the martial music comes
Of horns and fiddles, fifes and drums,
With jingling sound of carriage bells,
And treble creak of rusted wheels;
Behind, the crowd in lengthen'd row,
With grave procession clos'd the show;
And at fit periods ev'ry throat
Combin'd in universal shout,
And hail'd great Liberty in chorus,
Or bawl'd, Confusion to the Tories.
Not louder storm the welkin braves,
From clamors of conflicting waves;
Less dire in Lybian wilds the noise
When rav'ning lions lift their voice;
Or triumphs at town-meetings made,
On passing votes to reg'late trade .
Thus having borne them round the town,
Last at the pole they set them down,
And tow'rd the tavern take their way,
To end in mirth the festal day.
And now the Mob, dispers'd and gone,
Left 'Squire and Constable alone.
The Constable, in rueful case,
Lean'd sad and solemn o'er a brace,
And fast beside him, cheek by jowl,
Stuck 'Squire M'Fingal 'gainst the pole,
Glu'd by the tar, t' his rear applied,
Like barnacle on vessel's side:
But tho' his body lack'd physician,
His spirit was in worse condition.
He found his fears of whips and ropes,
By many a drachm out-weigh'd his hopes.
As men in gaol without main-prize,
View ev'ry thing with other eyes;
And all goes wrong in church and state,
Seen thro' perspective of the grate:
So now M'Fingal's second-sight
Beheld all things in diff'rent light;
His visual nerve, well purg'd with tar,
Saw all the coming scenes of war.
As his prophetic soul grew stronger,
He found he could hold in no longer:
First from the pole, as fierce he shook,
His wig from pitchy durance broke.
His mouth unglu'd, his feathers flutter'd,
His tarr'd skirts crack'd, and thus he utter'd:
"Ah, Mr. Constable, in vain
We strive 'gainst wind, and tide, and rain!
Behold my doom! this feather'd omen
Portends what dismal times are coming,
Now future scenes before my eyes,
And second-sighted forms ;
I hear a voice that calls away,
And cries the Whigs will win the day;
My beck'ning Genius gives command,
And bids us fly the fatal land;
Where, changing name and constitution,
Rebellion turns to Revolution,
While Loyalty, oppress'd in tears,
Stands trembling for his neck and ears.
Go, summon all our brethren greeting,
To muster at our usual meeting.
There my prophetic voice shall warn 'em,
Of all things future that concern 'em,
And scenes disclose, on which, my friend,
Their conduct and their lives depend:
There I—but first 'tis more of use,
From this vile pole to set me loose;—
Then go with cautious steps and steady,
While I steer home and make all ready."