A NEW SONG OF OLD SAYINGS.
Bonaparte the Bully resolved to come over,
With flat-bottomed Wherries, from Calais to Dover;
No perils to him in the billows are found,
‘For if born to be hang’d, he can never be drown’d.’
From a Corsican dunghill this fungus did spring,
He was soon made a Captain and would be a King;
But the higher he rises the more he does evil,
‘For a Beggar, on horseback, will ride to the Devil.’
To seize all that we have and then clap us in jail,
To devour our victuals, and drink all our ale,
And to grind us to dust is the Corsican’s will—
‘For we know all is grist that e’er comes to his mill.’
To stay quiet, at home, the First Consul can’t bear
Or, mayhap, ‘he would have other fish to fry there’;
So, as fish of that sort does not suit his desire,
‘He leaps out of the frying pan, into the fire.’
He builds barges and cock boats, and craft without end
And numbers the boats which to England he’ll send;
But in spite of his craft, and his barges and boats
‘He still reckons, I think, without one of his hosts.’
He rides upon France and he tramples on Spain,
And holds Holland and Italy tight in a Chain;
These he hazards for more, though I can’t understand,
‘How one bird in the bush is worth two in the hand.’
He trusts that his luck will all danger expel,
‘But the pitcher is broke that goes oft to the well’;
And when our brave soldiers this Bully surround,
‘Though he’s thought Penny Wise, he’ll be foolish in Pound.’
France can never forget that our fathers of yore,
Used to pepper and baste her at sea and at shore;
And we’ll speedily prove to this mock-Alexander,
‘What was sauce for the goose, will be sauce for the Gander.’
I have heard and have read in a great many books,
Half the Frenchmen are Tailors, and t’other half Cooks;—
We’ve fine Trimmings in store for the Knights of the Cloth,
‘And the Cooks that come here, will but spoil their own broth.’