'When a branch of the thistle gets over the Atlantic, And in a new world the root shall be planted, And when it doth arrive at a degree of perfection It surely will breed a great insurrection. In the year seventy and four the root will be polished, And in eighty and six it will be quite abolished. The lily and the thistle in that year will unite, But the lion and the dun cow will put them to flight. The eagle will eagerly join in the fray, But luna will clip both their wings in a day. O thistle, O thistle, thy wounds will be sore. Kirk and kirk government will be no more, And you'll be abridg'd of all civil power.' To show that America has not been wholly destitute of oracular sages in past times, I send you the following choice words or prophetical hints of an illiterate fisherman, who died about thirty years ago at his habitation, a few miles above the mouth of the Susquehanna. I discovered the paper containing them by mere accident in tumbling over the leaves of an old book at an inn near that place. If you think the lines worth inserting in your paper, they are at your service." Reprinted without change in the edition of 1786, the text of which I have followed above. In later editions the prophecy was changed somewhat to conform to historical facts. [139] In the later editions these two lines are made to read: "And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive When _Nebuchadnezzar_ to pasture shall drive." [140] "In the year eighty-three."--_Ed. 1795._ THE ARGONAUT OR, LOST ADVENTURER[141] True to his trade--the slave of fortune still-- In a sweet isle, where never winter reigns, I found him at the foot of a tall hill, Mending old sails, and chewing sugar canes: Pale ivy round him grew, and mingled vines, Plaintains, bananas ripe, and yellow pines. And flowering night-shade, with its dismal green, Ash-coloured iris, painted by the sun, And fair-haired hyacinth was near him seen, And China pinks by marygolds o'er-run:-- "But what (said he) have men that sail the seas, "Ah, what have they to do with things like these! "I did not wish to leave those shades, not I, "Where Amoranda turns her spinning-wheel; "Charmed with the shallow stream, that murmured by, "I felt as blest as any swain could feel, "Who, seeking nothing that the world admires, "On one poor valley fixed his whole desires. "With masts so trim, and sails as white as snow, "The painted barque deceived me from the land, "Pleased, on her sea-beat decks I wished to go, "Mingling my labours with her hardy band; "To reef the sail, to guide the foaming prow "As far as winds can waft, or oceans flow.