[L] A high church Episcopalian, then rector of Trinity Church, N. Y., since deceased.--_Freneau's note._ [M] Miles Cooper, President of Kings (now Columbia College).--_Ib._ * * * * * Such solemn confession,[225] in scriptural stile Worked out my salvation, at least for a while; The parson pronounced me deserving of grace, And so they restored me to printing and place. But days, such as these, were too happy to last: The sand of felicity settled too fast! When I swore and protested I honoured the throne The least they could do was to let me alone; Though George I compared to an angel above, They wanted some solider proofs of my love; And so they obliged me each morning to come And turn in the ranks at the beat of the drum, While often, too often (I tell it with pain) They menaced my head with a hickory cane, While others, my betters, as much were opprest-- But shame and confusion shall cover the rest. You, doubtless, will think I am dealing in fable When I tell you I guard an officer's stable-- With usage like this my feelings are stung; The next thing will be, I must heave out the dung! Six hours in the day is duty too hard, And Rivington sneers whene'er I mount guard, And laughs till his sides are ready to split With his jests, and his satires, and sayings of wit: Because he's excused, on account of his post He cannot go by without making his boast, As if I was all that is servile and mean-- But Fortune, perhaps, may alter the scene, And give him his turn to stand in the street, Burnt brandy supporting his animal heat--[226] But what for the king or the cause has he done That we must be toiling while he can look on? Great conquests he gave them on paper--'tis true[227] When Howe was retreating, he made him pursue; Alack! it's too plain that Britons must fall-- When loaded with laurels--they go to the wall. From hence you may guess I do nothing but grieve, And where we are going I cannot conceive-- The wisest among us a change are expecting, It is not for nothing, these ships are collecting, It is not for nothing, that Matthews, the mayor, And legions of Tories, for sailing prepare; It is not for nothing, that John Coghill Knap Is filing his papers, and plugging his tap; See Skinner himself, the fighting attorney, Is boiling potatoes, to serve a long journey; But where they are going, or meaning to travel, Would puzzle John Faustus himself to unravel, Perhaps to Penobscot, to starve in the barrens, Perhaps to St. John's, in the gulph of St. Lawrence; Perhaps to New-Scotland, to perish with cold, Perhaps to Jamaica, like slaves to be sold, Where, scorched by the summer, all nature repines, Where Phoebus, great Phoebus, too glaringly shines, And fierce from the zenith diverging his ray Oppresses the isle with a torrent of day.