[136] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 13, 1782.
On Mr. Rivington's new engraved King's Arms to his _Royal Gazette_[137]
From the regions of night, with his head in a sack, Ascended a person accoutred in black, And upward directing his circular eye whites; (Like the Jure-divino political Levites) And leaning his elbow on Rivington's shelf, While the printer was busy, thus mus'd with himself: "My mandates are fully complied with at last, "New arms are engrav'd, and new letters are cast: "I therefore determine and freely accord, "This servant of mine shall receive his reward." Then turning about, to the printer he said, "Who late was my servant shall now be my Aid; "Since under my banners so bravely you fight, "Kneel down!--for your merits I dubb you a knight, "From a passive subaltern I bid you to rise "The Inventor as well as the Printer of lies."
[137] _Freeman's Journal_, March 27, 1782. The _Gazette_, among the Whigs at least, was the synonym for falsity and unfairness. It was generally alluded to as the _Lying Gazette_.
When a certain great king, whose initial is G, Shall force stamps upon paper, and folks to drink tea; When these folks burn his tea, and stampt paper, like stubble, You may guess that this king is then coming to trouble. But when a petition he treads under his feet, And sends over the ocean an army and fleet; When that army, half-starved, and frantic with rage, Shall be coop'd up with a leader whose name rhymes to cage, When that leader goes home, dejected and sad, You may then be assur'd the king's prospects are bad: But when B and C with their armies are taken, This king will do well if he saves his own bacon. In the year seventeen hundred and eighty and two, A stroke he shall get that will make him look blue; In the years eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, You hardly shall know that the king is alive;[139] In the year eighty-six[140] the affair will be over, And he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover. The face of the lion then shall become pale, He shall yield fifteen teeth, and be sheer'd of his tail. O king, my dear king, you shall be very sore, The Stars and the Lilly shall run you on shore, And your lion shall growl, but never bite more.