We feel so enraged we could rip up his weazon, When we think of the soil he described with its trees on, And the plenty that reigned, and the charms of each season. Like a parson that tells of the joys of the blest To a man to be hanged--he himself thought it best To remain where he was, in his haven of rest. Since he helped us away by the means of his types, His precepts should only have lighted our pipes, His example was rather to honour your stripes. Now, if we return, as we're bone of your bone, We'll renounce all allegiance to George and his throne And be the best subjects that ever were known. In a ship, you have seen (where the duty is hard) The cook and the scullion may claim some regard, Though it takes a good fellow to brace the main yard. Howe'er you despise us, because you are free, The world's at a loss for such people as we, Who can pillage on land, and can plunder at sea. So long for our rations they keep us in waiting-- The Lords and the Commons, perhaps, are debating If Tories can live without drinking or eating. So we think it is better to see you, by far-- And have hinted our meaning to governor Parr[A]-- The worst that can happen is--feathers and tar. [A] Then Governor of Nova-Scotia.--_Freneau's note._ _Nova-Scotia, Feb. 1784._ [310] Text from the edition of 1809. First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 30, 1785, under the title, "A New York Tory's Epistle." [311] "We may starve and be damn'd."--_Ed. 1786._ [312] See note to poem "On Gen. Robertson's Proclamation," Vol. II, p. 162. THE AMERICAN SIBERIA[313] When Jove from darkness smote the sun, And Nature earth from chaos won, One part she left a barren waste By stormy seas and fogs embraced. Jove saw her vile neglect, and cried, "What madness did your fancy guide-- Why have you left so large a space With winter brooding o'er its face? No trees of stately growth ascend, Eternal fogs their wings expand-- My favorite--man--I placed not there, But spirits of a darker sphere. If Nature's self neglects her trade What strange confusion will be made: Such climes as these I doomed to fall On Saturn's cold unsocial ball: But such a blemish, here, to see-- How can it else but anger me? Where chilling winds forever freeze, What fool will fix on lands like these?" Nature, abashed, thus made reply: "When earth I formed, I don't deny, Some parts I portioned out for pain, Hard storms, dull skies, and--little gain. Mankind are formed with different souls: Some will be suited near the poles, Some pleased beneath the scorching line, And some, New Scotland, will be thine. Yet, in due time, my plastic hand Shall mould it o'er, if you command; By you I act--if you stand still The world comes tumbling down the hill!"