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And should from afar

Break the horrors of war,

We'll always be ready at once to declare,
That ne'er will the sons of America bend,
But united their Rights and their Freedom defend.


In a mouldering cave, where the wretched retreat,
Britannia sat wasted with care;

She mourn'd for her Wolfe, and exclaim'd against fate
And gave herself up to despair.

The walls of her cell she had sculptured around
With the feats of her favorite son;

And even the dust, as it lay on the ground,
Was engraved with the deeds he had done.

The sire of the Gods, from his crystalline throne,
Beheld the disconsolate dame,

And moved with her tears, he sent Mercury down,
And these were the tidings that came.
Britannia forbear, not a sigh nor a tear
For thy Wolfe so deservedly loved,
Your tears shall be changed into triumphs of joy,
For thy Wolfe is not dead but removed.

The sons of the East, the proud giants of old,
Have crept from their darksome abodes,
And this is the news as in Heaven it was told,

They were marching to war with the Gods;

This Song was written immediately after the death of General Wolfe. At this time a prize was offered for the best Epitaph on that celebrated hero. Mr. Paine entered the list among other competitors, but his matter growing too long for an Epitaph, and assuming another shape, he entitled it an Ode; and it was so published in the Gentleman's Magazine. It was soon after set to music, became a popular song, and was sung at the Anacreontic and other societies.-ED.

A council was held in the chambers of Jove,
And this was their final decree,

That Wolfe should be called to the armies above,
And the charge was entrusted to me.

To the plains of Quebec with the orders I flew,
He begg'd for a moment's delay;

He cry'd, Oh! forbear, let me victory hear,
And then thy command I'll obey.

With a darksome thick film 1 encompass'd his eyes,
And bore him away in an urn,

Lest the fondness he bore to his own native shore,
Should induce him again to return.


A Song, written early in the American Revolution.

Tune-Gods of the Greeks.

In a chariot of light, from the regions of day,
The Goddess of Liberty came,

Ten thousand celestials directed her way,
And hither conducted the dame.

A fair budding branch from the gardens above,
Where millions with millions agree,

She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,
And the plant she named Liberty Tree.

The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,
Like a native it flourished and bore;
The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,
To seek out this peaceable shore.

Unmindful of names or distinctions they came,
For freemen like brothers agree;

With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,
And their temple was Liberty Tree.


Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,

Their bread in contentment they ate,
Unvexed with the troubles of silver or gold,
The cares of the grand and the great.
With timber and tar, they Old England supplied,
And supported her power on the sea:

Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,
For the honor of Liberty Tree.

But hear, O ye swains, ('tis a tale most profane,)
How all the tyrannical powers,

King, commons, and lords, are uniting amain,
To cut down this guardian of ours.

From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms,
Thro' the land let the sound of it flee:

Let the far and the near all unite with a cheer,
In defence of our Liberty Tree.



At Philadelphia, being destroyed by Lightning, 1775.

Fair Venus so often was miss'd from the skies,
And Bacchus as frequently absent likewise,
That the synod began to inquire out the reason,
Suspecting the culprits were plotting of treason.
At length it was found they had open'd a ball
At a place by the mortals call'd Bachelors' Hall;
Where Venus disclosed every fun she could think of,
And Bacchus made nectar for mortals to drink of.
Jove, highly displeas'd at such riotous doings,
Sent Time to reduce the whole building to ruins ;
But Time was so slack with his traces and dashes,
That Jove in a passion consumed it to ashes.


The following story, ridiculous as it is, is a fact. A farmer at New Shoreham, near Brighthelmstone, having voted at an election for a member of parliament contrary to the pleasure of three neighboring justices, they took revenge on his dog, which they caused to be hanged, for starting a hare upon the high road.

Three justices (so says the tale)

Once met upon the public weal.
For learning, law, and parts profound,

Their fame was spread the country round;

Each by his wondrous art could tell

Of things as strange as Sydrophel;

Or by the help of sturdy ale,

So cleverly could tell a tale,
That half the gaping standers by
Would laugh aloud; the rest would cry.
Or by the help of nobler wine,
Would knotty points so nice define,
That in an instant right was wrong,

Yet did not hold that station long,
For while they talk'd of wrong and right,
The question vanish'd out of sight.
Each knew by practice where to turn
To every powerful page in Burn,
And could by help of note and book
Talk law like Littleton and Coke.
Each knew by instinct when and where
A farmer caught or kill'd a hare;
Could tell of any man had got

One hundred pounds per ann. or not;
Or what was greater, could divine
If it was only ninety-nine.
For when the hundred wanted one,
They took away the owner's gun.


Knew by the leering of an eye
If girls had lost their chastity,
And if they had not-would divine
Some way to make their virtue shine.

These learned brothers being assembled,
(At which the country feared and trembled,)
A warrant sent to bring before 'em,

One Farmer Short, who dwelt at Shoreham,
Upon a great and heavy charge,

Which we shall here relate at large,
That those who were not there may read,
In after days, the mighty deed:


"That he, the 'foresaid Farmer Short,
Being by the devil moved, had not
One hundred pounds per annum got;
That having not (in form likewise)
The fear of God before his eyes,
By force and arms did keep and cherish,
Within the aforesaid town and parish,
Against the statute so provided.
A dog. And there the dog abided.
That he, this dog, did then and there,
Pursue, and take, and kill a bare;
Which treason was, or some such thing,

The constable was bid to jog,
And bring the farmer-not the dog.

But fortune, whose perpetual wheel
Grinds disappointment sharp as steel,
On purpose to attack the pride

Of those who over others ride,
So nicely brought the matter round,
That Farmer Short could not be found,
Which plunged the bench in so much doubt,
They knew not what to go about.


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