Queen's colonel as he was, he did not know That thorns and thistles, mixed with honours, grow; In Britain's senate, though he held a place, All did not save him from one long disgrace, One stroke of fortune that convinced them all That men could conquer, and lieutenants fall. Foe to the rights of man, proud plunderer, say Had conquest crowned you on that mighty day When you, to Gates, with sorrow, rage, and shame Resigned your conquests, honours, arms, and fame, When at his feet Britannia's wreathes you threw, And the sun sickened at a sight so new; Had you been victor--what a waste of woe! What souls had vanished to where souls do go! What dire distress had marked your fatal way, What deaths on deaths disgraced that dismal day! Can laurels flourish in a soil of blood, Or on those laurels can fair honours bud-- Cursed be that wretch who murder makes his trade, Cursed be all wars that e'er ambition made! What murdering Tory now relieves your grief, Or plans new conquests for his favourite chief; Designs still dark employ that ruffian race, Beasts of your choosing, and our own disgrace, So vile a crew the world ne'er saw before, And grant, ye pitying heavens, it may no more: If ghosts from hell infest our poisoned air, Those ghosts have entered their base bodies here; Murder and blood is still their dear delight-- Scream round their roofs, ye ravens of the night! Whene'er they wed, may demons and despair, And grief and woe, and blackest night be there; Fiends leagued from hell the nuptial lamp display, Swift to perdition light them on their way, Round the wide world their devilish squadrons chace, To find no realm, that grants one resting place. Far to the north, on Scotland's utmost end An isle there lies, the haunt of every fiend, No shepherds there attend their bleating flocks, But withered witches rove among the rocks; Shrouded in ice, the blasted mountains show Their cloven heads, to daunt the seas below; The lamp of heaven in his diurnal race There scarcely deigns to unveil his radiant face, Or if one day he circling treads the sky He views this island with an angry eye, Or ambient fogs their broad, moist wings expand, Damp his bright ray, and cloud the infernal land; The blackening winds incessant storms prolong, Dull as their night, and dreary as my song; When stormy winds and gales refuse to blow, Then from the dark sky drives the unpitying snow; When drifting snows from iron clouds forbear, Then down the hail-stones rattle through the air-- There screeching owls, and screaming vultures rest, And not a tree adorns its barren breast; No peace, no rest, the elements bestow, But seas forever rage, and storms forever blow. There, Loyals, there, with loyal hearts retire, There pitch your tents, and kindle there your fire; There desert Nature will her stings display, And fiercest hunger on your vitals prey,