Even then, as I lay with strange whims in my head,
A ghost hove in sight, not a yard from my bed,
It seem'd Gen'ral Robertson,[271] brawly array'd,
But I grasp'd at the substance, and found him a shade!
He appear'd as of old, when, head of the throng,
And loaded with laurels, he waddled along—
He seem'd at the foot of my bedstead to stand
And cry'd—"Jemmy Rivington, reach me your hand;
"And Jemmy, (said he) I am sorry to find
"Some demon advis'd you to loiter behind;
"The country is hostile—you had better get off it,
"Here's nothing but squabbles, all plague and no profit!
"Since the day that Sir William came here with his throng
"He manag'd things so that they always went wrong,
"And tho' for his knighthood, he kept Meschianza,
"I think he was nothing but mere Sancho Pança.
"That famous conductor of moon-light retreats,
"Sir Harry, came next with his armies and fleets,
"But, finding the rebels were dying and dead,
"He grounded his arms and retreated to bed.
"Other luck we had once at the battle of Boyne!
"But here they have ruin'd Earl Charles and Burgoyne,
"Here brave col'nel Monckton was thrown on his back,
"And here lies poor André! the best of the pack."
So saying, he flitted away in a trice,
Just adding, "he hop'd I would take his advice"—
Which I surely shall do if you push me too hard—
And so I remain, with eternal regard,
James Rivington, printer, of late, to the king,
But now a republican—under your wing—
Let him stand where he is—don't push him down hill,
And he'll turn a true Blue-Skin, or just what you will.
"Si Pergama dextra
Defendi possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent."—Virg.
—Freneau's note.