We have at home, alas! some secret foes, Which, well as Frenchmen, valour must oppose. Though savage TERRORISTS their Schemes pursue, And still mislead a blind ungrateful Crew; Keep ye but firm, the martial Charge to bear, _Your brave Associates and yourselves revere?_ Ferocious Monsters must e’er long decline, And MODERATION draw her equal Line: So shall ye meet a Nation’s highest praise, And Love and Beauty crown your future Days; For Love and Beauty ever wait on Fame, Each Hero’s glory, and triumphal Claim. _Newcastle, Forth House, 1st July, 1795._ CULL, _alias_ SILLY BILLY, _Of Newcastle upon Tyne._ This well known character, William Scott, commonly called Cull Billy, a name known in most parts of the north, is a native of Newcastle, where he resided along with his mother, a poor old woman, who made her living by retailing wooden ware; she like her son was an object of distress, being not above four feet high. Billy, poor man, oft excited compassion from his fellow creatures, while reciting (which he did with a great degree of exactness, and in such a distinct and clear manner as to surprise many) the Lord’s Prayer, several other prayers, passages from scripture, &c. to a numerous audience of boys; but they generally repaid his endeavours for their welfare with a shower of dirt or stones. Oft have they followed him around the streets, beating and hooting him, as boys hunt a cat or dog; and yet no notice was taken of this, until one, more compassionate than the rest, stept forward and interceded for him, in the following lines, which were published in the Newcastle Chronicle of the 28th of August, 1802, with the signature of J.S. Whence those _cries_, my soul that harrow? Whence those _yells_, that wound my ear? ’Tis the hapless child of sorrow! ’Tis poor Billy’s plaint I hear. Now, in _tatter’d plight_ I see him, Teazing crowds around him press; Ah! will none from insult free him? None his injuries redress? Fill’d with many a fearful notion, Now he utters piercing cries; Starting now, with sudden motion, Swiftly thro’ the streets he hies. Poor, forlorn, and hapless creature, Victim of insanity! Sure it speaks a ruthless nature, To oppress a wretch like thee. When, by generous friends protected, All thy actions told thee mild, Tho’ by _reason_ undirected, And the prey of fancies wild. Of those friends did Heav’n deprive thee, None, alas! supply’d their place? And to madness now to drive thee, Ceaseless strives a cruel race. Youth forlorn! tho’ crowds deride thee, Gentle minds for thee must grieve; Back to _reason_, wish to guide thee, And thy ev’ry want relieve, O from this sad state to snatch thee, Why delay the _good_ and _kind_? _Pity_ calls them on to watch thee, And to tranquilize thy mind.