From the clime of New Scotland we wish you to know
We still are in being—mere spectres of woe,
Our dignity high, but our spirits are low.
Great people we are, and are called the king's friends;
But on friendships like these what advantage attends?
We may stay and be starved[311] when we've answered his ends!
The Indians themselves, whom no treaties can bind,
We have reason to think are perversely inclined—
And where we have friends is not easy to find.
From the day we arrived on this desolate shore
We still have been wishing to see you once more,
And your freedom enjoy, now the danger is o'er.
Although we be-rebelled you up hill and down,
It was all for your good—and to honour a crown
Whose splendours have spoiled better eyes than our own.
That traitors we were, is no more than our due,
And so may remain for a century through,
Unless we return, and be tutored by you.
Although with the dregs of the world we are classed,
We hope your resentment will soften at last,
Now your toils are repaid, and our triumphs are past.
When a matter is done, 'tis a folly to fret—
But your market-day mornings we cannot forget,
With your coaches to lend, and your horses to let.
Your dinners of beef, and your breakfasts of toast!
But we have no longer such blessings to boast,
No cattle to steal, and no turkies to roast.
Such enjoyments as these, we must tell you with pain,
'Tis odds we shall only be wishing in vain
Unless we return, and be brothers again.