Tories are rogues, and traitors imps broke loose). But know, ye few, the scandal of our land, On whom returns the blood that we expend, Those troops whose fears are told on every shore, Here lose their spirit and are brave no more; When armies fight to gain some cruel cause, Establish tyrants or destructive laws, True courage scorns to inspire the hateful crew, Recall past fame, or spur them on to new; Dark boding thoughts the heavy soul possess, And ancient valour turns to cowardice. Dark was the prospect, gloomy was the scene, When traitors join'd to break our union chain: But soon, by heaven inspir'd, arose the cry, Freedom or death, unite, unite or die. Now far and wide a manly spirit reigns, From Canada to Georgia's sun burnt plains; Few now insult with falsehood's shameless pen. Monsters from Tophet, driv'n in shapes of men: Few pension'd scribblers left the daring head, Some have turn'd lunatics and some have fled-- Some, late converted, scarce their pensions hold. And from mere force disdain the charms of gold. What deep offence has fir'd a monarch's rage, What moonstruck madness seized the brain of Gage? Laughs not the soul, when an imprison'd few Affect to pardon those they can't subdue? Tho' twice repuls'd and hemm'd up to their stations, Yet issue pardons, oaths, and proclamations, As if at sea some desperate madman crew Should threat the tempest with what they could do, And like proud Xerxes lash the angry waves, At the same instant that they find their graves. But not the pomps and favours of a crown, A nation's anger, or a statesman's frown, Could draw the virtuous man from virtue's way, To chain by force what treach'ry can't betray. Virtue disdains to own tyrannic laws, Takes part with freedom, and assumes its cause; No part had she, her fiercest forces own, To bring so far this heavy vengeance on; She stood with Romans while their hearts were true, And so she shall, Americans, with you. Should heaven in wrath decree some nation's fall, Whose crimes from thence for sacred vengeance call, A monarch first of vulgar soul should rise, A sure fore-runner of its obsequies, Whose heart should glow with not one gen'rous thought, Born to oppress, to propagate, and rot. Whose lengthen'd reign no deed of worth should grace, None trusted but a servile pensioned race; Too dull to know what saving course to take, That heaven in time its purpose might forsake, Too obstinately will'd to bow his ear To groaning thousands or petitions hear, Dare break all oaths that bind the just like fate, Oaths, that th' Arch-Devil would blush to violate, And, foe to truth, both oaths and honour sell, To establish principles, the growth of hell,-- Still those who aim to be his truest friends, Traitors, insidious rebels, madmen, fiends, Hoodwink'd and blind, deceived by secret foes, Whose fathers once with exil'd tyrants rose,