SONS of SAINT CRISPIN, 'tis in vain! Indeed 'tis fruitless to complain.— I know you with good beef or veal to carve: But first the hungry GREAT must all be fed; Mean time you all must chew hard, musty bread, Or, what is commonly unpleasant, starve.

Your Masters, like yourselves, oppression feel— It is not they would wish to stint your meal: Then suck your paws like bears, and be resigned. Perhaps your sins are many; and if so, Heav'n gives us very frequently, we know, The Great as scourges for mankind. Your masters soon may follow you, so lank— Undone by simple confidence in rank.

The royal RICHMOND builds his state on coals; SAL'SB'RY, and HAWKSB'RY, lofty souls, With their fair DAMES must have their ball and rout, Kings must our millions have, to make a glare; Whose sycophants must also have a share.— But pout not—'tis a libel, sirs, to pout — ( 7 )

Clos'd be your mouths, or dread the jail or thong: You must not for your money have a song. Cease, cease your riots, pray, my friends: It answereth(believe me) no good ends— And yet the time will come, I hope to God, When black-fac'd, damn'd OPPRESSION, to his den Shall howling fly before the curse of men, And feel of anger'd justice the sharp rod.

Go home, I beg of ye, my friends, and eat Your sour, your mouldy bread, and offal meat; Till FREEDOM comes—I see her on her way— Then shall a smile break forth upon each mien, The front of banish'd happiness be seen, And sons of Crispin, you, once more be gay.

Now go, and learn submission from your Bible: Complaint is now-a-day a flagrant libel. Yes, go and try to chew your mouldy bread— JUSTICE is sick, I own, but is not dead. Let Grandeur roll her chariot on your necks, Let GRANDEUR'S plumes be lifted by your sighs— Let dice, and chariots, and the stately thrones, Be formed of poor men's hard-work'd bones— We must contribute; or, lo, grandeur dies. We are the parish that supports her show; A truth that GRANDEUR wishes not to know.

Full many a time relucantly, I owe, I view our mighty RULERS with a groan, Who eath the labours of us vulgar crew; Bask on our shoulders in their lazy state; And if we dare look up for ease, th'ingrate Look down, and ask us, “d—n me who are you?” Now such forgetfulness is most unpleasant! The man that doth receive a hare or pheasant, Might somewhat, certainly, from manners spare, And say, “I thank ye for the bird or hare.”

( 8 )

But then I'm told agen, that grandeur's sore At owning obligations to the poor— Such favours make no figure in discourse: She thinks she might as well thank dogs or cats For finding partridges, and catching rats; And say, “I'm much oblig'd t'ye” to a horse.

Lo, to the GREAT we breath the sigh in vain; A Zephyr murmuring through the hollow walls: Our tears that tries to melt their souls, the rain That printless on the rock of ages falls.

The lofty GREAT must have the loftiest bed, To lay the soft luxurious head; And from our bosoms we poor geese, so tame, Must pluck submissively the tender feather; Ourselves exposed to Nature's rudest weather,be Denied the liberty to cry out, “shame!” Thus, while their heads the pillow'd down imprint, Ours must be only bolster'd by a flint.

You must not heed your children's hunger'd cry. Nor once upon their little sorrows sigh— In Tears their blubber'd faces let them steep, And howl their hunger and their grief to sleep. 'Tis impudence in babes to cry for bread— Lo GRANDEUR's fovourite dogs must first be fed!

See yon proud Duchess — yet of late so poor,
With not above ten thousand pounds a year: Behold ! a hundred coaches at her door, Where Pharo triumphs in his mad career, We must support her, or by hook or crook— For, lo, her husband was — a ROYAL Duke. We must support too her fine gold-lac'd crew, Behind her gilt coach, dancing molly fellows, With canes and ruffles goodly to the view, And (suiting their complexions) pink umbrellas. ( 9 ) It must be so; for lordly Grandeur rules— Lo, QUALITY are GODS, and MOB are mules.

I know you wish to see on gold, so good, King GEORGE's Head, that many a want supplies; So very pleasant to his people's eyes, As pleasant as the head oi flesh and blood. Money's a rattling sinner, to be sure; Like the sweet Cyprian girl (we won't say whore) Is happy to he frequently employ'd And not content by one to be enjoyed; Yet, like the GREAT ones, with fastidious eye Seems of inferior mortals rather shy.

Then go, my friends, and chew your mouldy bread, 'Tis on your shoulders Courts must lift the head.

Remember, we are only oxen yet— Therefore, beneath the yoke, condemn'd to sweat, But gradually we all shall change to men; And then !!! what then? — Ye heavens! what then? The lawless sway of Tyranny is o'er— Pride falls, and BRITONS will be beasts no more.

AH, Burke! full sorry is the Muse indeed, That thou art from the Patriot phalanx fled! For what? To crouch and flatter queens and kings? Meanly to mingle with a courtier gang, That infamy herself would scorn to hang— Such a poor squalid host of creeping things! Has madness fired thy brain? Alas! return: Thy fault in sackcloth and in ashes mourn: Join not a court, and Freedom's foulest foes— REPENTANCE, lo, shall try to wash thee white; Then howl not, EDMUND, 'mid the imps of night, Swell not the number of a flock of crows.

What murky cloud, the vapour black of courts, (For many a cloud the breath of kings supports) Attempts thy reputation's spreading beam? What bat-like DEMON, with the damn'dest spite, Springs on thy fame, on GLORY's sacred height, To souse it in DISGRACE's dirty stream?

Alas! if MAJESTY did gracious say, “BURKE, BURKE, I'm glad, I'n glad you ran away, I'm glad you left your party—very glad— They wish'd to treat me like a boy at school; Rope, rope me like a horse, an ass, a mule— That's very bad, you know; that's very bad. ( 11 ) I hate the —— junto ; hate it, BURKE— Poor rogues, poor rogues, that cannot draw a cork— Nothing but empty dishes, empty dishes— We've got the loaves and fishes, loaves and fishes.” I say, if thus a mighty Monarch spoke As usual—not by way of joke; Did not the speech so withering make thee shrink? Didst thou not inward say, I've damn'd myself— “Why, what a miserable elf!” And then upon each old acquaintance think; And with a sigh recall those attic days, When Wit and Wisdom pour'd the mingled blaze?

BURKE, BURKE, most easily do I discover Ihou loathest the weak smile that won thee over— —From Tr—ry borrowed, ne'er to be returned! Ev'n now thou art not happy at thy heart— It sighs for wisdom's voice, and pants to part From fellows by the honest VIRTUES spurn'd.

Thy tongue has promis'd friendship with a sigh— For, lo, th' interpreter of thoughts, thine eye Hangs heavy, beamless on the motley band— To whom thou stretchest forth thy leaden hand! Yes, slowly does that hand of FRIENDSHIP move: The startled courtiers feel no grasp of love; A cold and palsied shake of gratulation, As though it trembled at contamination!

O BURKE! behold fair Liberty advancing— TRUTH, WIT, and HUMOUR, sporting in her train: Behold them happy, singing, laughing, dancing,  Proud of a Golden Age again! When all thy friends (thy friends of late, I mean) Shall, flush'd with conquest, meet their idol queen, The goddess at whose shrine a world should kneel, When they with songs of triumph hail the DAME Will not thy cheek be dash'd with deepest shame, And CONSCIENCE somewhat startled feel?

( 12 )

Ah! will thine eye a gladsome beam display; Borrow from smooth hypocrisy a ray, To hail the lohg-desired return? Speak, wilt thou screw into a smile thy mouth, And welcome LIBERTY, with WIT and TRUTH And for a moment leave thy gang to mourn? Yes, thou wilt greet her with a half-forc'd smile; Quitting thy virtuous company a while, To say, “Dear Madam, welcome—how d'ye do?” And then the DAME will answer with a dip, Scorn in her eye, contempt upon her lip, “Not much the better, mister BURKE, for you. Poor BURKE! I read thy soul, and feel thy pain— Go, join the sycophants that I disdain.”