Ever since I return'd to my dear native shore, No poet in Grubstreet was ever dunned more-- I'm dunned by my barber, my taylor, my groom; How can I do else than to fret and to fume? They join to attack me with one good accord, From morning till night 'tis "my lord, and my lord." And there comes the cobler, so often denied-- If I had him in private, I'd thresh his tough hide.
Would you worry the man that has found you in shoes? Come, courage, my lord, I can tell you good news-- Virginia is conquered, the rebels are banged,[59] You are now to go over and see them safe hanged: I hope it is not to your nature abhorrent To sign for these wretches a handsome death warrant-- Were I but in your place, I'm sure it would suit To sign their death warrants, and hang them to boot.
My lord!--I'm amazed--have we routed the foe?-- I shall govern again then, if matters be so-- And as to the hanging, in short, to be plain, I'll hang them so well, they'll ne'er want it again. With regard to the wretches who thump at my gates, I'll discharge all their dues with the rebel estates; In less than three months I may send a polacca As deep as she'll swim, sir, with corn and tobacco.
And send us some rebels--a dozen or so-- They'll serve here in London by way of a show; And as to the Tories, believe me, dear cousin, We can spare you some hundreds to pay for the dozen.
[58] _Freeman's Journal_, September 19, 1781. The original title, the one used in the 1786 edition, was "Dialogue between the Lords Dunmore and Mansfield." Lord Dunmore was Governor of Virginia at the beginning of the war, in 1775, and was driven from that State by the outraged colonists. He continued in America, in various capacities, until near the close of the war. Lord George Germaine was Colonial Secretary under George III., and so had charge of the American War.
[59] Alluding to the vigorous campaign of Cornwallis. In June, Germaine had written to Cornwallis: "The rapidity of your movements is justly matter of astonishment to all Europe." On August 2nd he wrote: "I see nothing to prevent the recovery of the whole country to the King's obedience."
From clouds of smoke, and flames that round me glow, To you, dear Clinton, I disclose my woe: Here cannons flash, bombs glance, and bullets fly; Not Arnold's[61] self endures such misery. Was I foredoomed in tortures[62] to expire, Hurled to perdition in a blaze of fire? With these blue flames can mortal man contend-- What arms can aid me, or what walls defend? Even to these gates last night a phantom strode, And hailed me trembling to his dark abode: Aghast I stood, struck motionless and dumb, Seized with the horrors of the world to come. Were but my power as mighty as my rage, Far different battles would Cornwallis wage; Beneath his sword yon' threat'ning hosts should groan, The earth would quake with thunders all his own. O crocodile! had I thy flinty hide, Swords to defy, and glance the balls aside, By my own prowess would I rout the foe, With my own javelin would I work their woe-- But fates averse, by heaven's supreme decree, Nile's serpent formed more excellent than me. Has heaven, in secret, for some crime decreed That I should suffer, and my soldiers bleed? Or is it by the jealous powers concealed, That I must bend, and they ignobly yield? Ah! no--the thought o'erwhelms my soul with grief: Come, bold Sir Harry, come to my relief; Come, thou brave man, whom rebels Tombstone call, But Britons, Graves[63]--come Digby, devil and all; Come, princely William, with thy potent aid, Can George's blood by Frenchmen be dismayed? From a king's uncle once Scotch rebels run, And shall not these be routed by a son? Come with your ships to this disastrous shore, Come--or I sink--and sink to rise no more; By every motive that can sway the brave Haste, and my feeble, fainting army save; Come, and lost empire o'er the deep regain, Chastise these upstarts that usurp the main; I see their first rates to the charge advance, I see lost _Iris_ wear the flags of France; There a strict rule the wakeful Frenchman keeps; There, on no bed of down, Lord Rawdon sleeps! Tired with long acting on this bloody stage, Sick of the follies of a wrangling age, Come with your fleet, and help me to retire To Britain's coast, the land of my desire-- For, me the foe their certain captive deem, And every trifler[64] takes me for his theme-- Long, much too long in this hard service tried, Bespattered still, be-deviled, and belied; With the first chance that favouring fortune sends I fly, converted, from this land of fiends; Convinced, for me, she has no gems in store, Nor leaves one triumph, even to hope for more.