<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=424408" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>M'Fingal - Canto I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Yankies, skill'd in martial rule,<br>First put the British troops to school;<br>Instructed them in warlike trade,<br>And new manoeuvres of parade,<br>The true war-dance of Yankee reels,<br>And manual exercise of heels;<br>Made them give up, like saints complete,<br>The arm of flesh, and trust the feet,<br>And work, like Christians undissembling,<br>Salvation out, by fear and trembling;<br>Taught Percy fashionable races,<br>And modern modes of Chevy-Chases:<br>From Boston, in his best array,<br>Great 'Squire M'Fingal took his way,<br>And graced with ensigns of renown,<br>Steer'd homeward to his native town.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>His high descent our heralds trace<br>From Ossian's famed Fingalian race:<br>For though their name some part may lack,<br>Old Fingal spelt it with a Mac;<br>Which great M'Pherson, with submission,<br>We hope will add the next edition.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>His fathers flourish'd in the Highlands<br>Of Scotia's fog-benighted islands;<br>Whence gain'd our 'Squire two gifts by right,<br>Rebellion, and the Second-sight.<br>Of these, the first, in ancient days,<br>Had gain'd the noblest palm of praise,<br>'Gainst kings stood forth and many a crown'd head<br>With terror of its might confounded;<br>Till rose a king with potent charm<br>His foes by meekness to disarm,<br>Whom every Scot and Jacobite<br>Strait fell in love with at first sight;<br>Whose gracious speech with aid of pensions,<br>Hush'd down all murmurs of dissensions,<br>And with the sound of potent metal<br>Brought all their buzzing swarms to settle;<br>Who rain'd his ministerial manna,<br>Till loud Sedition sung hosanna;<br>The grave Lords-Bishops and the Kirk<br>United in the public work;<br>Rebellion, from the northern regions,<br>With Bute and Mansfield swore allegiance;<br>All hands combin'd to raze, as nuisance,<br>Of church and state the Constitutions,<br>Pull down the empire, on whose ruins<br>They meant to edify their new ones;<br>Enslave th' Amer'can wildernesses,<br>And rend the provinces in pieces.<br>With these our 'Squire, among the valiant'st,<br>Employ'd his time, and tools and talents,<br>And found this new rebellion pleasing<br>As his old king-destroying treason.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Nor less avail'd his optic sleight,<br>And Scottish gift of second-sight.<br>No ancient sybil, famed in rhyme,<br>Saw deeper in the womb of time;<br>No block in old Dodona's grove<br>Could ever more orac'lar prove.<br>Nor only saw he all that could be,<br>But much that never was, nor would be;<br>Whereby all prophets far outwent he,<br>Though former days produced a plenty:<br>For any man with half an eye<br>What stands before him can espy;<br>But optics sharp it needs, I ween,<br>To see what is not to be seen.<br>As in the days of ancient fame,<br>Prophets and poets were the same,<br>And all the praise that poets gain<br>Is for the tales they forge and feign:<br>So gain'd our 'Squire his fame by seeing<br>Such things, as never would have being;<br>Whence he for oracles was grown<br>The very tripod of his town.<br>Gazettes no sooner rose a lie in,<br>But strait he fell to prophesying;<br>Made dreadful slaughter in his course,<br>O'erthrew provincials, foot and horse,<br>Brought armies o'er, by sudden pressings,<br>Of Hanoverians, Swiss and Hessians,<br>Feasted with blood his Scottish clan,<br>And hang'd all rebels to a man,<br>Divided their estates and pelf,<br>And took a goodly share himself.<br>All this with spirit energetic,<br>He did by second-sight prophetic.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Thus stored with intellectual riches,<br>Skill'd was our 'Squire in making speeches;<br>Where strength of brains united centers<br>With strength of lungs surpassing Stentor's.<br>But as some muskets so contrive it,<br>As oft to miss the mark they drive at,<br>And though well aim'd at duck or plover,<br>Bear wide, and kick their owners over:<br>So fared our 'Squire, whose reas'ning toil<br>Would often on himself recoil,<br>And so much injured more his side,<br>The stronger arguments he applied;<br>As old war-elephants, dismay'd,<br>Trod down the troops they came to aid,<br>And hurt their own side more in battle,<br>Than less and ordinary cattle.<br>Yet at Town-meetings every chief<br>Pinn'd faith on great M'Fingal's sleeve;<br>Which when he lifted, all by rote<br>Raised sympathetic hands to vote.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Town, our hero's scene of action,<br>Had long been torn by feuds of faction,<br>And as each party's strength prevails,<br>It turn'd up different, heads or tails;<br>With constant rattling, in a trice,<br>Show'd various sides, as oft as dice.<br>As that famed weaver, wife t' Ulysses,<br>By night her day's-work pick'd in pieces,<br>And though she stoutly did bestir her,<br>Its finishing was ne'er the nearer:<br>So did this town with ardent zeal<br>Weave cobwebs for the public weal,<br>Which when completed, or before,<br>A second vote in pieces tore.<br>They met, made speeches full long-winded,<br>Resolv'd, protested and rescinded;<br>Addresses sign'd; then chose committees<br>To stop all drinking of Bohea teas;<br>With winds of doctrine veer'd about,<br>And turn'd all whig committees out.<br>Meanwhile our Hero, as their head,<br>In pomp the tory faction led,<br>Still following, as the 'Squire should please,<br>Successive on, like files of geese.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And now the town was summon'd, greeting,<br>To grand parading of Town-meeting;<br>A show, that strangers might appal,<br>As Rome's grave senate did the Gaul.<br>High o'er the rout, on pulpit stairs,<br>Mid den of thieves in house of prayers,<br>(That house, which loth a rule to break<br>Serv'd heaven, but one day in the week,<br>Open the rest for all supplies<br>Of news, and politics, and lies <br>Stood forth the Constable; and bore<br>His staff, like Merc'ry's wand of yore,<br>Waved potent round, the peace to keep,<br>As that laid dead men's souls to sleep.<br>Above and near th' hermetic staff,<br>The Moderator's upper half<br>In grandeur o'er the cushion bow'd,<br>Like Sol half seen behind a cloud.<br>Beneath stood voters of all colours,<br>Whigs, Tories, orators and brawlers;<br>With every tongue in either faction<br>Prepared like minute-men for action;<br>Where truth and falsehood, wrong and right,<br>Drew all their legions forth to fight.<br>With equal uproar scarcely rave<br>Opposing winds in Æolus' cave;<br>Such dialogues with earnest face<br>Held never Balaam with his ass.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>With daring zeal and courage blest,<br>Honorius first the crowd addres'd.<br>When now our 'Squire, returning late,<br>Arrived to aid the grand debate;<br>With strange, sour faces sate him down,<br>While thus the orator went on.<br>--&quot;For ages blest thus Britain rose,<br>The terror of encircling foes;<br>Her heroes ruled the bloody plain,<br>Her conq'ring standard awed the main.<br>The different palms her triumph grace<br>Of arms in war, of arts in peace.<br>Unharrass'd by maternal care,<br>Each rising province flourish'd fair;<br>Whose various wealth, with liberal hand,<br>By far o'erpaid the parent land.<br>But though so bright her sun might shine,<br>'Twas quickly hasting to decline,<br>With feeble ray, too weak t' assuage<br>The damps, that chill the eve of age.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;For states, like men, are doom'd as well<br>Th' infirmities of age to feel,<br>And from their different forms of empire,<br>Are seiz'd with every deep distemper.<br>Some states high fevers have made head in,<br>Which nought could cure but copious bleeding;<br>While others have grown dull and dozy,<br>Or fix'd in helpless idiocy;<br>Or turn'd demoniacs to belabour<br>Each peaceful habitant and neighbour;<br>Or vex'd with hypochondriac fits,<br>Have broke their strength, and lost their wits.<br>Thus now while hoary years prevail,<br>Good mother Britain seem'd to fail;<br>Her back bent, crippled with the weight<br>Of age, and debts, and cares of state.<br>For debts she owed, and those so large,<br>As twice her wealth could ne'er discharge,<br>And now 'twas thought, so high they'd grown,<br>She'd come upon the parish soon.<br>Her arms, of nations once the dread,<br>She scarce could lift above her head;<br>Her deafen'd ears, 'twas all their hope,<br>The final trump perhaps might ope;<br>So long they'd been, in stupid mood,<br>Shut to the hearing of all good.<br>Grim death had put her in his scroll<br>Down on the execution-roll;<br>And Gallic crows, as she grew weaker,<br>Began to whet their beaks to pick her.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;And now her powers decaying fast,<br>Her grand climact'ric had she pass'd,<br>And just like all old women else,<br>Fell in the vapors much by spells.<br>Strange whimsies on her fancy struck,<br>And gave her brain a dismal shock;<br>Her memory fails, her judgment ends;<br>She quite forgot her nearest friends,<br>Lost all her former sense and knowledge,<br>And fitted fast for Bedlam-college.<br>Of all the powers she once retain'd,<br>Conceit and pride alone remain'd.<br>As Eve, when falling, was so modest<br>To fancy she should grow a goddess;<br>As madmen, straw who long have slept on,<br>Style themselves Jupiter and Neptune:<br>So Britain in her airs so flighty,<br>Now took a whim to be Almighty;<br>Urg'd on to desperate heights of frenzy,<br>Affirm'd her own Omnipotency;<br>Would rather ruin all her race,<br>Than yield supremacy, an ace;<br>Assumed all rights divine, as grown<br>The church's head, like good Pope Joan;<br>Swore all the world should bow and skip,<br>At her almighty goodyship;<br>Anath'matized each unbeliever,<br>And vow'd to live and rule for ever.<br>Her servants humour'd every whim,<br>And own'd at once her power supreme;<br>Her follies nursed in all their stages,<br>For sake of liveries and wages;<br>In Stephen's Chapel then in state too<br>Set up her golden calf to pray to;<br>Proclaim'd its power and right divine,<br>And call'd for worship at its shrine;<br>And for poor heretics to burn us,<br>Bade North prepare his fiery furnace;<br>Struck bargains with the Romish churches,<br>Infallibility to purchase;<br>Set wide for Popery the door,<br>Made friends with Babel's scarlet whore,<br>Till both the matrons join'd in clan;<br>No sisters made a better span.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;What wonder then, ere this was over,<br>That she should make her children suffer?<br>She first without pretence or reason,<br>Claim'd right whate'er we had to seize on;<br>And with determin'd resolution<br>To put her claims in execution,<br>Sent fire and sword, and call'd it Lenity;<br>Starv'd us, and christen'd it Humanity.<br>For she, her case grown desperater,<br>Mistook the plainest things in nature;<br>Had lost all use of eyes or wits,<br>Took slavery for the bill of rights;<br>Trembled at whigs and deem'd them foes,<br>And stopp'd at loyalty her nose;<br>Styled her own children, brats and catiffs,<br>And knew us not from th' Indian natives.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;What though with supplicating prayer,<br>We begg'd our lives and goods she'd spare;<br>Not vainer vows with sillier call<br>Elijah's prophets raised to Baal;<br>A worshipp'd stock of god or goddess<br>Had better heard and understood us.<br>So once Egyptians at the Nile<br>Ador'd their guardian crocodile,<br>Who heard them first with kindest ear,<br>And ate them to reward their prayer;<br>And could he talk, as kings can do,<br>Had made as gracious speeches too.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Thus, spite of prayers, her schemes pursuing,<br>She still went on to work our ruin;<br>Annull'd our charters of releases,<br>And tore our title-deeds in pieces;<br>Then sign'd her warrants of ejection,<br>And gallows rais'd to stretch our necks on:<br>And on these errands sent in rage<br>Her bailiff, and her hangman, Gage;<br>And at his heels, like dogs to bait us,<br>Dispatch'd her Posse Comitatus.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;No state e'er chose a fitter person<br>To carry such a silly farce on.<br>As heathen gods in ancient days<br>Receiv'd at second hand their praise,<br>Stood imaged forth in stones and stocks,<br>And deified in barber's blocks:<br>So Gage was chose to represent<br>Th' omnipotence of Parliament.<br>As antient heroes gain'd by shifts,<br>From gods, as poets tell, their gifts;<br>Our General, as his actions show,<br>Gain'd like assistance from below,<br>By satan graced with full supplies<br>From all his magazine of lies.<br>Yet could his practice ne'er impart<br>The wit to tell a lie with art.<br>Those lies alone are formidable<br>Where artful truth is mix'd with fable.<br>But Gage has bungled oft so vilely,<br>No soul would credit lies so silly,<br>Outwent all faith, and stretch'd beyond<br>Credulity's extremest end:<br>Whence plain it seems, though satan once<br>O'erlook'd with scorn each brainless dunce,<br>And blundering brutes in Eden shunning,<br>Chose out the serpent for his cunning;<br>Of late he is not half so nice,<br>Nor picks out aids because they're wise:<br>For had he stood upon perfection,<br>His present friends had lost th' election,<br>And fared as hard, in this proceeding,<br>As owls and asses did in Eden.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Yet fools are often dangerous enemies;<br>As meanest reptiles are most venomous:<br>Nor e'er could Gage, by craft or prowess,<br>Have done a whit more mischief to us;<br>Since he began th' unnat'ral war,<br>The work his masters sent him for.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;And are there in this freeborn land<br>Among ourselves a venal band;<br>A dastard race, who long have sold<br>Their souls and consciences for gold;<br>Who wish to stab their country's vitals,<br>Could they enjoy surviving titles;<br>With pride behold our mischiefs brewing,<br>Insult and triumph in our ruin?<br>Priests, who, if satan should sit down<br>To make a bible of his own,<br>Would gladly, for the sake of mitres,<br>Turn his inspired and sacred writers;<br>Lawyers, who, should he wish to prove<br>His claim to his old seat above,<br>Would, if his cause he'd give them fees in,<br>Bring writs of Entry sur disseisin,<br>Plead for him boldly at the session,<br>And hope to put him in possession;<br>Merchants who, for his friendly aid<br>Would make him partner in their trade,<br>Hang out their signs in goodly show,<br>Inscribed with, Beelzebub & Co.;<br>And judges, who would list his pages,<br>For proper liveries and wages;<br>And who as humbly cringe and bow<br>To all his mortal servants now?<br>There are; and shame, with pointing gestures,<br>Marks out th' Addressers and Protesters;<br>Whom following down the stream of fate,<br>Contempts ineffable await;<br>And public infamy forlorn,<br>Dread hate and everlasting scorn.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>As thus he spake, our 'Squire M'Fingal<br>Gave to his partisans a signal.<br>Not quicker roll'd the waves to land,<br>When Moses waved his potent wand,<br>Nor with more uproar, than the Tories<br>Set up a general rout in chorus;<br>Laugh'd, hiss'd, hem'd, murmur'd, groan'd and jeer'd;<br>Honorius now could scarce be heard.<br>Our Muse, amid th' increasing roar,<br>Could not distinguish one word more;<br>Though she sate by, in firm record<br>To take in short hand every word,<br>As ancient Muses wont; to whom<br>Old bards for depositions come;<br>Who must have writ them; for how else<br>Could they each speech verbatim tell 's?<br>And though some readers of romances<br>Are apt to strain their tortured fancies,<br>And doubt (when lovers all alone<br>Their sad soliloquies do groan,<br>Grieve many a page, with no one near 'em,<br>And nought, but rocks and groves, to hear 'em)<br>What sprite infernal could have tattled,<br>And told the authors all they prattled;<br>Whence some weak minds have made objection<br>That what they scribbled must be fiction:<br>'Tis false; for while the lover spoke,<br>The Muse was by with table-book,<br>And least some blunder should ensue,<br>Echo stood clerk, and kept the cue.<br>And though the speech ben't worth a groat,<br>It can't be call'd the author's fault;<br>But error merely of the prater,<br>Who should have talk'd to th' purpose better:<br>Which full excuse, my critic brothers,<br>May help me out as well as others;<br>And 'tis design'd, though here it lurk,<br>To serve as Preface to this work.<br>So let it be--for now our 'Squire<br>No longer could contain his ire,<br>And rising 'midst applauding Tories,<br>Thus vented wrath upon Honorius.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Quoth he, &quot;'Tis wondrous what strange stuff<br>Your Whigs-heads are compounded of;<br>Which force of logic cannot pierce,<br>Nor syllogistic carte and tierce,<br>Nor weight of scripture or of reason<br>Suffice to make the least impression.<br>Not heeding what ye rais'd contest on,<br>Ye prate, and beg, or steal the question;<br>And when your boasted arguings fail,<br>Strait leave all reas'ning off, to rail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Have not our High-church Clergy made it<br>Appear from Scriptures, which ye credit,<br>That right divine from heaven was lent<br>To kings, that is, the Parliament,<br>Their subjects to oppress and teaze,<br>And serve the devil when they please?<br>Did not they write, and pray, and preach,<br>And torture all the parts of speech,<br>About rebellion make a pother,<br>From one end of the land to th' other?<br>And yet gain'd fewer proselyte Whigs,<br>Than old St. Anth'ny 'mongst the pigs;<br>And changed not half so many vicious,<br>As Austin when he preach'd to fishes,<br>Who throng'd to hear, the legend tells,<br>Were edified, and wagg'd their tails:<br>But scarce you'd prove it, if you tried,<br>That e'er one Whig was edified.<br>Have ye not heard from Parson Walter<br>Much dire presage of many a halter?<br>What warnings had ye of your duty,<br>From our old rev'rend Sam. Auchmuty;<br>From priests of all degrees and metres,<br>T' our fag-end man, poor Parson Peters?<br>Have not our Cooper and our Seabury<br>Sung hymns, like Barak and old Deborah;<br>Proved all intrigues to set you free<br>Rebellion 'gainst the Pow'rs that be;<br>Brought over many a scripture text,<br>That used to wink at rebel sects,<br>Coax'd wayward ones to favor regents,<br>And paraphrased them to obedience;<br>Proved every king, ev'n those confest<br>Horns of the Apocalyptic beast,<br>And sprouting from its noddles seven,<br>Ordain'd, as Bishops are, by heaven;<br>(For reasons similar, as we're told<br>That Tophet was ordain'd of old)<br>By this lay-ordination valid,<br>Becomes all sanctified and hallow'd,<br>Takes patent out as heaven has sign'd it,<br>And starts up strait, the Lord's Anointed?<br>As extreme unction, which can cleanse<br>Each penitent from deadly sins;<br>Make them run glib, when oiled by priest,<br>The heav'nly road, like wheels new greased;<br>Serve them, like shoe-ball, for defences,<br>'Gainst wear and tear of consciences:<br>So king's anointment clears betimes,<br>Like fuller's earth, all spots of crimes,<br>For future knaveries gives commissions,<br>Like Papists sinning under license.<br>For heaven ordain'd the origin,<br>Divines declare, of pain and sin,<br>Prove such great good they both have done us,<br>Kind mercy 'twas they came upon us;<br>For without sin and pain and folly,<br>Man ne'er was blest, nor wise, nor holy:<br>And we should thank the Lord 'tis so,<br>As authors grave wrote long ago.<br>Now heav'n its issues never brings<br>Without the means, and these are kings;<br>And he who blames when they announce ills,<br>Would counteract th' eternal counsels.<br>As when the Jews, a murm'ring race,<br>By constant grumblings fell from grace,<br>Heav'n taught them first to know their distance,<br>By famine, slavery and Philistines;<br>When these could no repentance bring,<br>In wrath it sent them last a king:<br>So nineteen, 'tis believ'd, in twenty<br>Of modern kings for plagues are sent you;<br>Nor can your cavillers pretend<br>But that they answer well their end.<br>'Tis yours to yield to their command,<br>As rods in Providence's hand;<br>For when it means to send you pain,<br>You toss your foreheads up in vain;<br>Your way is, hush'd in peace, to bear it,<br>And make necessity a merit.<br>Hence sure perdition must await<br>The man, who rises 'gainst the State,<br>Who meets at once the damning sentence,<br>Without one loophole for repentance;<br>Ev'n though he gain the Royal See,<br>And rank among the Powers that be.<br>For hell is theirs, the scripture shows,<br>Whoe'er the Powers that be oppose;<br>And all those Powers (I'm clear that 'tis so)<br>Are damn'd for ever, ex officio.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Thus far our Clergy: but 'tis true<br>We lack'd not earthly reas'ners too.<br>Had I the Poet's brazen lungs,<br>As soundboard to his hundred tongues,<br>I could not half the scribblers muster,<br>That swarm'd round Rivington in cluster;<br>Assemblies, Councilmen, forsooth,<br>Brush, Cowper, Wilkins, Chandler, Booth:<br>Yet all their arguments and sapience<br>You did not value at three halfpence.<br>Did not our Massachusettensis<br>For your conviction strain his senses;<br>Scrawl every moment he could spare<br>From cards and barbers and the fair;<br>Show, clear as sun in noonday heavens,<br>You did not feel a single grievance;<br>Demonstrate all your opposition<br>Sprung from the eggs of foul Sedition;<br>Swear he had seen the nest she laid in,<br>And knew how long she had been sitting;<br>Could tell exact what strength of heat is<br>Required to hatch her out Committees;<br>What shapes they take, and how much longer's<br>The time before they grow t' a Congress?<br>He white-wash'd Hutchinson, and varnish'd<br>Our Gage, who'd got a little tarnish'd;<br>Made them new masks, in time no doubt,<br>For Hutchinson's was quite worn out:<br>Yet while he muddled all his head,<br>You did not heed a word he said.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Did not our grave Judge Sewall hit<br>The summit of newspaper wit;<br>Fill every leaf of every paper<br>Of Mills & Hicks, and mother Draper;<br>Draw proclamations, works of toil,<br>In true sublime of scarecrow style,<br>Write farces too 'gainst sons of freedom,<br>All for your good, and none would read 'em;<br>Denounce damnation on their frenzy,<br>Who died in Whig-impenitency;<br>Affirm that heav'n would lend us aid,<br>As all our Tory writers said;<br>And calculate so well its kindness,<br>He told the moment when it join'd us?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;'Twas then belike,&quot; Honorius cried,<br>&quot;When you the public fast defied,<br>Refused to heaven to raise a prayer,<br>Because you'd no connections there;<br>And since with reverent hearts and faces,<br>To Governors you'd paid addresses,<br>In them, who made you Tories, seeing<br>You lived and moved and had your being,<br>Your humble vows you would not breathe<br>To powers, you'd no acquaintance with.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;As for your fasts,&quot; replied our 'Squire,<br>&quot;What circumstance could fasts require?<br>We kept them not, but 'twas no crime,<br>We held them merely loss of time.<br>For what advantage firm and lasting,<br>Pray, did you ever get by fasting,<br>Or what the gain, that can arise<br>From vows and offerings to the skies?<br>Will heaven reward with posts and fees,<br>Or send us tea, as consignees,<br>Give pensions, salaries, places, bribes,<br>Or chuse us judges, clerks or scribes?<br>Has it commissions in its gift,<br>Or cash to serve us at a lift?<br>Are acts of parliament there made,<br>To carry on the placeman's trade,<br>Or has it pass'd a single bill<br>To let us plunder whom we will?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;And look our list of placemen all over;<br>Did heaven appoint our chief Judge Oliver,<br>Fill that high bench with ignoramus,<br>Or has it councils by mandamus?<br>Who made that wit of water-gruel<br>A judge of admiralty, Sewall?<br>And were they not mere earthly struggles,<br>That raised up Murray, say, and Ruggles?<br>Did heaven send down, our pains to medicine,<br>That old simplicity of Edson,<br>Or by election pick out from us<br>That Marshfield blunderer, Nat. Ray Thomas;<br>Or had it any hand in serving<br>A Loring, Pepperell, Browne or Irving?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Yet we've some saints, the very thing,<br>To pit against the best you'll bring;<br>For can the strongest fancy paint,<br>Than Hutchinson, a greater saint?<br>Was there a parson used to pray,<br>At times more regular, twice a day;<br>As folks exact have dinners got,<br>Whether they've appetites or not?<br>Was there a zealot more alarming<br>'Gainst public vice to hold forth sermon,<br>Or fix'd at church, whose inward motion<br>Roll'd up his eyes with more devotion?<br>What puritan could ever pray<br>In godlier tone, than Treasurer Gray,<br>Or at town-meetings speechifying,<br>Could utter more melodious whine,<br>And shut his eyes, and vent his moan,<br>Like owl afflicted in the sun;<br>Who once sent home, his canting rival,<br>Lord Dartmouth's self, might outbedrivel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Have you forgot,&quot; Honorius cried,<br>&quot;How your prime saint the truth defied,<br>Affirm'd he never wrote a line<br>Your charter'd rights to undermine,<br>When his own letters then were by,<br>Which proved his message all a lie?<br>How many promises he seal'd<br>To get th' oppressive acts repeal'd,<br>Yet once arrived on England's shore,<br>Set on the Premier to pass more?<br>But these are no defects, we grant,<br>In a right loyal Tory saint,<br>Whose godlike virtues must with ease<br>Atone for venial crimes, like these:<br>Or ye perhaps in scripture spy<br>A new commandment, &quot;Thou shalt lie;&quot;<br>If this be so (as who can tell?)<br>There's no one sure ye keep so well.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Quoth he, &quot;For lies and promise-breaking,&quot;<br>Ye need not be in such a taking:<br>For lying is, we know and teach,<br>The highest privilege of speech;<br>The universal Magna Charta,<br>To which all human race is party,<br>Whence children first, as David says,<br>Lay claim to't in their earliest days;<br>The only stratagem in war,<br>Our generals have occasion for;<br>The only freedom of the press,<br>Our politicians need in peace.<br>Thank heaven, your shot have miss'd their aim,<br>For lying is no sin nor shame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;As men last wills may change again,<br>Tho' drawn, &quot;In name of God, Amen;&quot;<br>Be sure they must have clearly more<br>O'er promises as great a power,<br>Which, made in haste, with small inspection,<br>So much the more will need correction;<br>And when they've, careless, spoke or penn'd 'em,<br>Have right to look them o'er and mend 'em;<br>Revise their vows, or change the text,<br>By way of codicil annex'd;<br>Strike out a promise, that was base,<br>And put a better in its place.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;So Gage of late agreed, you know,<br>To let the Boston people go;<br>Yet when he saw 'gainst troops that braved him,<br>They were the only guards that saved him,<br>Kept off that satan of a Putnam<br>From breaking in to maul and mutton him;<br>He'd too much wit, such leagues t' observe,<br>And shut them in again, to starve.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;So Moses writes, when female Jews<br>Made oaths and vows unfit for use,<br>Their parents then might set them free<br>From that conscientious tyranny:<br>And shall men feel that spir'tual bondage<br>For ever, when they grow beyond age?<br>Shall vows but bind the stout and strong,<br>And let go women weak and young,<br>As nets enclose the larger crew,<br>And let the smaller fry creep through?<br>Besides, the Whigs have all been set on,<br>The Tories to affright and threaten,<br>Till Gage amidst his trembling fits,<br>Has hardly kept him in his wits;<br>And though he speak with fraud and finesse,<br>'Tis said beneath duress per minas.<br>For we're in peril of our souls<br>From your vile feathers, tar and poles;<br>And vows extorted are not binding<br>In law, and so not worth the minding.<br>For we have in this hurly-burly<br>Sent off our consciences on furlow;<br>Thrown our religion o'er in form,<br>Our ship to lighten in the storm.<br>Nor need we blush your Whigs before;<br>Had we no virtue, you've no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Yet black with sins, would spoil a mitre,<br>Rail ye at faults by ten tints whiter?<br>And, stuff'd with choler atrabilious,<br>Insult us here for peccadilloes?<br>While all your vices run so high<br>That mercy scarce could find supply:<br>And should you offer to repent,<br>You'd need more fasting days than Lent,<br>More groans than haunted church-yard vallies,<br>And more confessions than broad-alleys.<br>I'll show you all at fitter time,<br>Th' extent and greatness of your crime,<br>And here demonstrate to your face,<br>Your want of virtue, as of grace,<br>Evinced from topics old and recent:<br>But thus much must suffice at present.<br>To th' after portion of the day,<br>I leave what more remains to say;<br>When, I've good hope, you'll all appear,<br>More fitted and prepared to hear,<br>And grieved for all your vile demeanour:<br>But now 'tis time t' adjourn for dinner.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Trumbull">John Trumbull</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=424408" data-title="M'Fingal - Canto I de John Trumbull" data-description="When Yankies, skill'd in martial rule, First put the British troops to school; Instructed them in warlike trade, And new manoeuvres of parade, The true war-dance of Yankee reels, And manual exercise of heels; Made them give up, like saints complet..."></div> </div> </div>

solid border dashed border dotted border double border groove border ridge border inset border outset border no border blue green red purple cyan gold silver black