"Should Oswald's painters all my features trace, And shew me as I am in soul and face; Among the vile and worthless of mankind, Without a spark of virtue in my mind, And write my name beneath, I would reply, The portrait, though a true one, told a lie. "Still shall my bagpipes of sedition play, And I, like other dogs, shall have my day; My hoarse-mouth'd cry shall war with sense proclaim, And madly howl at ev'ry virtuous name; Our hungry scribes in verse and prose shall join, Though Chaos glooms through ev'ry stupid line; In spite of sense we'll write, by shame unhurt, And all our rage discharge, and all our dirt, Night-owls will screech, since Heav'n has left them free, And wolves will howl, or wolves they would not be. "Although from dirt, we like musquetoes rose, And quiet people count us still their foes; When we are crush'd, or chas'd from hole to hole, We'll strive to tease and torture ev'ry soul. When we are dead and in some ditch are cram'd (For die we must, and with our works be damn'd), When we shall howl our last departing groans, And brother dogs regale upon our bones; The horrors of our souls awhile to calm, Let me compose, and Duffield sing a psalm." [199] "Oswald's scribblers."--_Freeman's Journal._ [200] "Blaspheme."--_Ed. 1786._ [201] "Reason."--_Ib._ [202] "Who would to Oswald's."--_Freeman's Journal._ [203] "Must prate and dogs."--_Ed. 1786._ [204] "Hoarse-mouth'd whelps."--_Ib._ [205] "And one dark chaos gloom."--_Ib._ [206] "Canonize."--_Freeman's Journal._ [207] "Fallon, the priest."--_Ed. 1786._ THE PROPHECY OF KING TAMMANY[208] The Indian chief who, famed of yore, Saw Europe's sons adventuring here, Looked, sorrowing, to the crowded shore, And sighing dropt a tear! He saw them half his world explore, He saw them draw the shining blade, He saw their hostile ranks displayed, And cannons blazing through that shade Where only peace was known before. "Ah, what unequal arms!" he cried, "How art thou fallen, my country's pride, "The rural, sylvan reign! "Far from our pleasing shores to go "To western rivers, winding slow, "Is this the boon the gods bestow! "What have we done, great patrons, say, "That strangers seize our woods away, "And drive us naked from our native plain? "Rage and revenge inspire my soul, "And passion burns without controul; "Hence, strangers, to your native shore! "Far from our Indian shades retire, "Remove these gods that vomit fire, "And stain with blood these ravaged glades no more; "In vain I weep, in vain I sigh, "These strangers all our arms defy, "As they advance our chieftains die!-- "What can their hosts oppose! "The bow has lost its wonted spring, "The arrow faulters on the wing, "Nor carries ruin from the string "To end their being and our woes.