Now because I remain when the puppies are gone You would willingly see me hang'd, quarter'd and drawn, Though I think I have logic sufficient to prove That the chance of my stay--is a proof of my love. For deeds of destruction some hundreds are ripe, But the worst of my foes are your lads of the type: Because they have nothing to put on their shelves They are striving to make me as poor as themselves. There's Loudon[252] and Kollock,[253] these strong bulls of Bashan, Are striving to hook me away from my station, And Holt,[254] all at once, is as wonderful great As if none but himself was to print for the State. Ye all are convinc'd I'd a right to expect That a sinner returning you would not reject-- Quite sick of the scarlet and slaves of the throne, 'Tis now at your option to make me your own. Suppose I had gone with the Tories and rabble To starve, or be drown'd on the shoals of cape Sable, I had suffer'd, 'tis true--but I'll have you to know, You nothing had gain'd by the voice of my woe. You say that with grief and dejection of heart I pack'd up my awls with a view to depart, That my shelves were dismantled, my cellars unstor'd, My boxes afloat, and my hampers on board: And hence you infer (I am sure without reason) That a right you possess to entangle my weazon-- Yet your barns I ne'er burnt, nor your blood have I spilt, And my terror alone was no proof of my guilt. The charge may be true--for I found it in vain To lean on a staff that was broken in twain, And ere I had gone at Port Roseway to fix, I had chose to sell drams on the margin of Styx. I confess, that, with shame and contrition opprest, I sign'd an agreement to go with the rest, But ere they weigh'd anchor to sail their last trip, I saw they were vermin, and gave them the slip. Now, why you should call me the worst man alive, On the word of a convert, I cannot contrive, Though turn'd a plain honest republican, still You own me no proslelyte, do what I will. My paper is alter'd--good people, don't fret; I call it no longer the _Royal Gazette_:[255] To me a great monarch has lost all his charms, I have pull'd down his Lion, and trampled his Arms. While fate was propitious, I thought they might stand, You know I was zealous for George's command, But since he disgrac'd it, and left us behind, If I thought him an angel--I've alter'd my mind. On the very same day that his army went hence I ceas'd to tell lies for the sake of his pence; And what was the reason--the true one is best-- I worship no suns when they move to the west: In this I resemble a Turk or a Moor, Bright Phoebus ascending, I prostrate adore; And, therefore, excuse me for printing some lays, An ode or a sonnet in Washington's praise.