66

Surcharge, surcharge, good Taxing-man,

"Anon our seals we fix,

"Of sterling pounds, Lord Duke, you pay "Three hundred thirty-six."

EPIGRAM

ON THE PARIS LOAN,

CALLED

THE LOAN UPON ENGLAND.

THE Paris cits, a patriotic band,

Advance their cash on British freehold land:

But let the speculating rogues beware—

They've bought the skin, but who's to kill the bear?

No. IX.

ODE TO ANARCHY.

BY A JACOBIN.

January 8.

BEING AN IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE XXV. BOOK 1.

O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium!

GODDESS, whose dire terrific

power

Spreads, from thy much-loved Gallia's plains,

Where'er her blood-stain'd ensigns lower,

Where'er fell Rapine stalks, or barb'rous Discord reigns!

Thou, who canst lift to fortune's height

The wretch by truth and virtue scorn'd,

And crush, with insolent delight,

All whom true merit raised, or noble birth adorn'd!

Thee, oft the murd'rous band implores,
Swift-darting on its hapless prey:

Thee, wafted from fierce Afric's shores,

The Corsair chief invokes to speed him on his way.

Thee, the wild Indian tribes revere;

Thy charms the roving Arab owns ;

Thee, kings, thee, tranquil nations fear,

The bane of social bliss, the foe to peaceful thrones

For, soon as thy loud trumpet calls

To deadly rage, to fierce alarms,

Just Order's goodly fabric falls,

Whilst the mad people cries, " to arms! to arms!"

With thee Proscription, child of strife,
With death's choice implements, is seen,
Her murd'rer's gun, assassin's knife,

And, “ last, not least in love," her darling Guillotine.

Fond hope is thine,-the hope of spoil,
And faith,—such faith as ruffians keep:

They prosper thy destructive toil,

That makes the widow mourn, the helpless orphan weep.

Then false and hollow friends retire,

Nor yield one sigh to soothe despair;

Whilst crowds triumphant Vice admire,

Whilst harlots shine in robes that deck'd the great and fair.

G

Guard our famed chief to Britain's strand!

Britain, our last, our deadliest foe:

Oh, guard his brave associate band!

A band to slaughter train'd, and "nursed in scenes of woe."

What shame, alas! one little Isle

Should dare its native laws maintain?

At Gallia's threats serenely smile,

And, scorning her dread power, triumphant rule the main!

For this have guiltless victims died

In crowds at thy ensanguined shrine!
For this has recreant Gallia's pride

O'erturn'd religion's fanes, and braved the wrath divine!

What throne, what altar, have we spared

To spread thy power, thy joys impart?

Ah then, our faithful toils reward!

And let each falchion pierce some loyal Briton's heart.

The following SONG is recommended to be sung at all convivial Meetings, convened for the purpose of opposing the Assessed Tax Bill. The Correspondent, who has transmitted it to us, informs us that he has tried it with great success among many of his welldisposed neighbours, who had been at first led to apprehend that the 120th part of their income was too great a sacrifice, for the preservation of the remainder of their property from French Confiscation.

You have heard of Rewbell,

That demon of hell,

And of Barras, his brother Director;

Of the canting Lepaux,

And that scoundrel Moreau,

Who betray'd his old friend and protector.

Would you know how these friends,

For their own private ends,

Do

Would subvert our religion and throne?—

you doubt of their skill

To change laws at their will?

You shall hear how they treated their own.