Ye busy tribe, of harpy face,
In search of power, in search of place,
Ye rancorous hearts, who build your all
On royal wrongs and freedom's fall,
This have we seen, and well we know,
Each son of freedom is your foe,
And these you would, unheard, convey
To places worse than Botany Bay.
Be cautious how you talk so loud—
Above your heads there hangs a cloud,
That, bursting with explosion vast,
May scatter vengeance in its blast;
And send you all, on th' devil's dray,
A longer road than—Botany Bay.
Another threat alarm'd us much—
(Indeed, we hourly meet with such)—
A cockney said, but spoke it low,
For fear the street his mind should know:
"And is there no sedition act?
("'Tis almost time to doubt the fact,)
"By which this gabbling crew are bound
"The nearest way to Nootka Sound?"
Can you but smile!—who would have thought
That they who writ, who march'd, who fought
For many a year, and little got
But liberty, and dearly bought
Must now away
With half their pay,
And seek on ocean's utmost bound
Their chance to starve at Nootka Sound!
This Nootka Sound, so far remote,
Would make us sing a serious note,
If it be true what travellers tell
That there a race of natives dwell
Who, when they would their brethren treat
And give them a regale of meat
Unchain their prisoners from the den,
And scrape the bones of bearded men.
God save us from so hard a fate!
As to be spitted, soon or late;
It is a lot that few admire—
So let us for a while retire;
And live to see some traitors drown'd
I' the deepest swash of Nootka Sound.
[158] Text from the 1815 edition.
REFLECTIONS[159]
On the Mutability of Things—1798