He left him what was better yet,
At least it was more use, sir,
He left him for a quick retreat,
A very good excuse, sir.

To stay, unless he ruled the sea,

He thought would not be right, sir,

And Continental troops, said he,
On islands should not fight, sir,

Another cause with these combined,
To throw him in the dumps, sir,
For Clinton's name alarmed his mind,
And made him stir his stumps, sir.

VOL. II.-23

Tired out with happiness, the frogs
Sedition croaked through all their bogs;
And thus to Jove the restless race,
Made out their melancholy case.

"Famed, as we are, for faith and prayer,
We merit sure peculiar care;

But can we think great good was meant us,
When logs for Governors were sent us?

"Which numbers crushed they fell upon,
And caused great fear,-till one by one,
As courage came, we boldly faced 'em,
Then leaped upon 'em, and disgraced 'em!

"Great Jove," they croaked, "no longer fool us,

None but ourselves are fit to rule us;

We are too large, too free a nation,
To be encumbered with taxation!

No courtiers now their friends deceive
With promises of favor;

For what they made 'em once believe
Is done and done forever.

Our nobles-Heaven defend us all!

I'll nothing say about 'em;
For they are great and I'm but small,
So muse, jog on without 'em.

Our gentry are a virtuous race,
Despising earthly treasures;

Fond of true honor's noble chase,
And quite averse to pleasures.

The ladies dress so plain indeed,
You'd think 'em Quakers all,
Witness the wool-packs on their heads,
So comely and so small.

No tradesman now forsakes his shop,
For politics or news;

Or takes his dealer at a hop

Through interested views.

No soaking sot forsakes his spouse
For mugs of mantling nappy;
Nor taverns tempt him from his house,
Where all are pleased and happy.

Our frugal taste the State secures,
Whence then can woes begin?

For luxury's turned out of doors,
And prudence taken in.

From hence proceeds the abundant flow
Of plenty through the land;
Where all provisions, all men know,
Are cheap on every hand.

No pleasure-chaises fill the streets, Nor crowd the roads on Sunday; So horses, ambling through the week, Obtain a respite one day.

All gaming, tricking, swearing, lying,
Is grown quite out of fashion;

For modern youth's so self-denying
It flies all lawless passion.

Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,
For stumps and briars meet, sir?
Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,
Or hardy veteran feet, sir?

Now housed in York he challenged all,

At minuet or all 'amande,

And lessons for a courtly ball

His guards by day and night conned.

This challenge known, full soon there came,
A set who had the bon ton,

De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame
Fut brillant pour un long tems.

And Washington, Columbia's son,
Whom easy nature taught, sir,
That grace which can't by pains be won,
Or Plutus' gold be bought, sir.

Now hand in hand they circle round
This ever-dancing peer, sir;
Their gentle movements soon confound
The earl as they draw near, sir.

His music soon forgets to play—
His feet can no more move, sir,
And all his bands now curse the day
They jiggèd to our shore, sir.

Now Tories all, what can ye say?

Come-is not this a griper,

That while your hopes are danced away,

'Tis you must pay the piper?

THE CONGRESS.

[Tory Song, to the tune of " Nancy Dawson." Printed in Towne's Evening Post. 1776.]