But soon as approaching the land
That goddess-like woman he view'd,
The scourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his subjects imbrued.
I saw him both sicken and die,

And the moment the monster expired,
Heard shouts that ascended the sky,
From thousands with rapture inspired.
Awaking, how could I but muse

At what such a dream should betide?
But soon my ear caught the glad news,
Which served my weak thought for a guide,—
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves
For the hatred she ever has shown
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,
Resolves to have none of her own.

SWEET MEAT HAS SOUR SAUCE;

OR, THE SLAVE TRADER IN THE DUMPS.

A TRADER I am to the African shore,
But since that my trading is like to be o'er,
I'll sing you a song that you ne'er heard before,

Which nobody can deny, deny,
Which nobody can deny.

When I first heard the news it gave me a shock,
Much like what they call an electrical knock,
And now I am going to sell off my stock,

Which nobody, &c.

"Tis a curious assortment of dainty regales,

To tickle the negroes with when the ship sails,
Fine chains for the neck, and a cat with nine tails,

Which nobody, &c.

Here's supple-jack plenty and store of rat-tan,
That will wind itself round the sides of a man,
As close as a hoop round a bucket or can,

Which nobody, &c.

Here's padlocks and bolts, and screws for the thumbs, That squeeze them so lovingly till the blood comes; They sweeten the temper like comfits or plums,

Which nobody, &c.

When a negro his head from his victuals withdraws, And clenches his teeth and thrusts out his paws, Here's a notable engine to open his jaws,

Which nobody, &c.

Thus going to market, we kindly prepare

A pretty black cargo of African ware,

For what they must meet with when they get there,

Which nobody, &c.

'Twould do your heart good to see 'em below Lie flat on their backs all the way as we go, Like sprats on a gridiron, scores in a row,

Which nobody, &c.

But ah! if in vain I have studied an art,
So gainful to me, all boasting apart,
I think it would break my compassionate heart,

Which nobody, &c.

For oh! how it enters my soul like an awl!
This pity, which some people self-pity call,
Is sure the most heart-piercing pity of all,'

Which nobody, &c.

So this is my song, as I told you before;
Come, buy off my stock, for I must no more
Carry Cæsars and Pompeys to sugar-cane shore,
Which nobody, &c.

EPIGRAM.

To purify their wine, some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,
And hence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs.
'Tis in the blood of innocence alone-

Good cause why planters never try their own.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS;

OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burthen of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year,

But oh! it cuts him like a scythe
When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come, jog, jog,
Along the miry road,

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express'd,

When he that takes and he that pays

Are both alike distress'd.

Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,

With rueful faces and bald pates ;-
He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come-each makes his leg,
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score.

'And how does miss and madam do,

The little boy and all?'

'All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr What-d'ye call?'

The dinner comes, and down they sit :
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,

One spits upon the floor,

Yet not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull And lumpish still as ever;

Like barrels with their bellies full,

They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins.

'Come, neighbours, we must wag

The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, 'A rarer man than you
In pulpit none shall hear :

But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear.'

O why where farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?

A kick that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.

THE NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

THERE is a field, through which I often pass,
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire,
That he may follow them through brake and brier,
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,

Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.