We burnt up your mills and your meetings, 'tis true,
And many bold fellows we crippled and slew—
(Aye! we were the boys that had something to do!)
Old Huddy[312] we hung on the Neversink shore—
But, Sirs, had we hung up a thousand men more,
They had all been avenged in the torments we bore,
When Asgill to Jersey you foolishly fetched,
And each of us feared that his neck would be stretched,
When you were be-rebelled, and we were be-wretched.
In the book of destruction it seems to be written
The Tories must still be dependent on Britain—
The worst of dependence that ever was hit on.
Now their work is concluded—that pitiful jobb—
They send over convicts to strengthen our mob—
And so we do nothing but snivel and sob.
The worst of all countries has fallen to our share,
Where winter and famine provoke our despair,
And fogs are for ever obscuring the air.
Although there be nothing but sea dogs to feed on,
Our friend Jemmy Rivington made it an Eden—
But, alas! he had nothing but lies to proceed on.
Deceived we were all by his damnable schemes—
When he coloured it over with gardens and streams,
And grottoes and groves, and the rest of his dreams.
Our heads were so turned by that conjuror's spell,
We swallowed the lies he was ordered to tell—
But his "happy retreats" were the visions of hell.
We feel so enraged we could rip up his weazon,
When we think of the soil he described with its trees on,
And the plenty that reigned, and the charms of each season.