He deprecated blood and war,
Its many mischiefs did deplore
Except when England mounts the car.
At Congress he had such a fling,
As plainly show'd, he wish'd a king,
Might here arrive, on Vulture's wing;
And that himself an horn might blow
To shake our modern Jericho,
And bring its ramparts very low.
To english notes his psalm was sung,
With politics the pulpit rung,
And thrice was bellow'd from his tongue,
"The president is always wrong!
"He brought these evils on our land,
And he must go—the time's at hand—
With Bonaparte to take his stand."—
Must not the wheels of fate go on?
Must not the lion's teeth be drawn,
Because it suits not Prester John!—
A Bishop's Lawn is such a prize
Such virtue in a mitre lies,
Democracy before it flies.
And these he hopes, if George prevails,
In time may hoist his shorten'd sails
And waft him on, with fortune's gales.
To gain by preaching, nett and clear,
Some twenty hundred pounds a year;
Which democrats would never bear.
To England why so much a friend,
Or why her cause with heat defend?—
There is, no doubt, some selfish end.