The True-Born Englishman Part 2

The Western Angles all the rest subdued, A b.l.o.o.d.y nation, barbarous and rude; Who by the tenure of the sword possess'd One part of Britain, and subdued the rest: And as great things denominate the small, The conquering part gave t.i.tle to the whole; The Scot, Pict, Briton, Roman, Dane, submit, And with the English Saxon all unite: And these the mixture have so close pursued, The very name and memory's subdued; No Roman now, no Briton does remain; Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain: The silent nations undistinguish'd fall, And Englishman's the common name for all.

Fate jumbled them together, G.o.d knows how; Whate'er they were, they're true-born English now.

The wonder which remains is at our pride, To value that which all wise men deride; For Englishmen to boast of generation Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation, A true-born Englishman's a contradiction, In speech an irony, in fact a fiction: A banter made to be a test of fools, Which those that use it justly ridicules; A metaphor intended to express, A man a-kin to all the universe.

For as the Scots, as learned men have said, Throughout the world their wand'ring seed have spread, So open-handed England, 'tis believed, Has all the gleanings of the world received.

Some think of England, 'twas our Saviour meant, The Gospel should to all the world be sent: Since when the blessed sound did hither reach, They to all nations might be said to preach.

'Tis well that virtue gives n.o.bility, Else G.o.d knows where had we our gentry, Since scarce one family is left alive, Which does not from some foreigner derive.

Of sixty thousand English gentlemen, Whose names and arms in registers remain, We challenge all our heralds to declare Ten families which English Saxons are.

France justly boasts the ancient n.o.ble line Of Bourbon, Montmorency, and Lorraine.

The Germans too, their house of Austria show, And Holland, their invincible Na.s.sau.

Lines which in heraldry were ancient grown, Before the name of Englishman was known.

Even Scotland, too, her elder glory shows, Her Gordons, Hamiltons, and her Monro's; Douglas', Mackays, and Grahams, names well known, Long before ancient England knew her own.

But England, modern to the last degree, Borrows or makes her own n.o.bility, And yet she boldly boasts of pedigree; Repines that foreigners are put upon her, And talks of her antiquity and honour: Her Sackvills, Savils, Cecils, Delamers, Mohuns, Montagues, Duras, and Veeres, Not one have English names, yet all are English peers.

Your Houblons, Papillons, and Lethuliers, Pa.s.s now for true-born English knights and squires, And make good senate-members, or lord-mayors.

Wealth, howsoever got, in England makes Lords of mechanics, gentlemen of rakes.

Antiquity and birth are needless here; 'Tis impudence and money makes a peer.

Innumerable city knights we know, From Blue-coat Hospitals, and Bridewell flow.

Draymen and porters fill the city chair, And foot-boys magisterial purple wear.

Fate has but very small distinction set Betwixt the counter and the coronet.

Tarpaulin lords, pages of high renown, Rise up by poor men's valour, not their own; Great families of yesterday we show, And lords, whose parents were the Lord knows who.

PART II.

The breed's described: now, Satire, if you can, Their temper show, for manners make the man.

Fierce as the Briton, as the Roman brave, And less inclined to conquer than to save; Eager to fight, and lavish of their blood, And equally of fear and forecast void.

The Pict has made them sour, the Dane morose, False from the Scot, and from the Norman worse.

What honesty they have, the Saxon gave them, And that, now they grow old, begins to leave them.

The climate makes them terrible and bold: And English beef their courage does uphold: No danger can their daring spirit dull, Always provided when their belly's full.

In close intrigues, their faculty's but weak; For, gen'rally, whate'er they know they speak.

And often their own councils undermine By their infirmity, and not design.

From whence, the learned say, it does proceed, That English treason never can succeed: For they're so open-hearted, you may know Their own most secret thoughts, and others too.

The lab'ring poor, in spite of double pay, Are saucy, mutinous, and beggarly; So lavish of their money and their time, That want of forecast is the nation's crime.

Good drunken company is their delight; And what they get by day they spend by night.

Dull thinking seldom does their heads engage, But drink their youth away, and hurry on old age.

Empty of all good husbandry and sense; And void of manners most when void of pence.

Their strong aversion to behaviour's such, They always talk too little or too much.

So dull, they never take the pains to think; And seldom are good natured but in drink.

In English ale their dear enjoyment lies, For which they starve themselves and families.

An Englishman will fairly drink as much, As will maintain two families of Dutch: Subjecting all their labours to the pots; The greatest artists are the greatest sots.

The country poor do by example live; The gentry lead them, and the clergy drive; What may we not from such examples hope?

The landlord is their G.o.d, the priest their pope; A drunken clergy, and a swearing bench, Has given the reformation such a drench, As wise men think, there is some cause to doubt, Will purge good manners and religion out.

Nor do the poor alone their liquor prize, The sages join in this great sacrifice; The learned men who study Aristotle, Correct him with an explanation bottle: Praise Epicurus rather than Lysander, And Aristippus more than Alexander; The doctors too their Galen here resign, And generally prescribe specific wine; The graduate's study's grown an easy task, While for the urinal they toss the flask; The surgeon's art grows plainer every hour, And wine's the balm which into wounds they pour.

Poets long since Parna.s.sus have forsaken, And say the ancient bards were all mistaken.

Apollo's lately abdicate and fled, And good king Bacchus reigneth in his stead: He does the chaos of the head refine, And atom thoughts jump into words by wine: The inspiration's of a finer nature, As wine must needs excel Parna.s.sus water.

Statesmen their weighty politics refine, And soldiers raise their courages by wine.

Cecilia gives her choristers their choice, And lets them all drink wine to clear the voice.

Some think the clergy first found out the way, And wine's the only spirit by which they pray.

But others, less profane than so, agree, It clears the lungs, and helps the memory: And, therefore, all of them divinely think, Instead of study, 'tis as well to drink.

And here I would be very glad to know, Whether our Asgilites may drink or no; The enlightening fumes of wine would certainly a.s.sist them much when they begin to fly; Or if a fiery chariot should appear, Inflamed by wine, they'd have the less to fear.

Even the G.o.ds themselves, as mortals say, Were they on earth, would be as drunk as they: Nectar would be no more celestial drink, They'd all take wine, to teach them how to think.

But English drunkards, G.o.ds and men outdo, Drink their estates away, and senses too.

Colon's in debt, and if his friend should fail To help him out, must die at last in jail: His wealthy uncle sent a hundred n.o.bles, To pay his trifles off, and rid him of his troubles: But Colon, like a true-born Englishman, Drunk all the money out in bright champaign, And Colon does in custody remain.

Drunk'ness has been the darling of the realm, E'er since a drunken pilot had the helm.

In their religion, they're so uneven, That each man goes his own byway to heaven.

Tenacious of mistakes to that degree, That ev'ry man pursues it sep'rately, And fancies none can find the way but he: So shy of one another they are grown, As if they strove to get to heaven alone.

Rigid and zealous, positive and grave, And ev'ry grace, but charity, they have; This makes them so ill-natured and uncivil, That all men think an Englishman the devil.

Surly to strangers, froward to their friend, Submit to love with a reluctant mind, Resolved to be ungrateful and unkind.

If, by necessity, reduced to ask, The giver has the difficultest task: For what's bestow'd they awkwardly receive, And always take less freely than they give; The obligation is their highest grief, They never love where they accept relief; So sullen in their sorrows, that 'tis known They'll rather die than their afflictions own; And if relieved, it is too often true, That they'll abuse their benefactors too; For in distress their haughty stomach's such, They hate to see themselves obliged too much; Seldom contented, often in the wrong, Hard to be pleased at all, and never long.

If your mistakes there ill opinion gain, No merit can their favour re-obtain: And if they're not vindictive in their fury, 'Tis their inconstant temper does secure ye: Their brain's so cool, their pa.s.sion seldom burns; For all's condensed before the flame returns: The fermentation's of so weak a matter, The humid damps the flame, and runs it all to water; So though the inclination may be strong, They're pleased by fits, and never angry long:

Then, if good-nature show some slender proof, They never think they have reward enough; But, like our modern Quakers of the town, Expect your manners, and return you none.

Friendship, th' abstracted union of the mind, Which all men seek, but very few can find; Of all the nations in the universe, None can talk on't more, or understand it less; For if it does their property annoy, Their property their friendship will destroy.

As you discourse them, you shall hear them tell All things in which they think they do excel: No panegyric needs their praise record, An Englishman ne'er wants his own good word.

His first discourses gen'rally appear, Prologued with his own wond'rous character: When, to ill.u.s.trate his own good name, He never fails his neighbour to defame.

And yet he really designs no wrong, His malice goes no further than his tongue.

But, pleased to tattle, he delights to rail, To satisfy the letch'ry of a tale.

His own dear praises close the ample speech, Tells you how wise he is, that is, how rich: For wealth is wisdom; he that's rich is wise; And all men learned poverty despise: His generosity comes next, and then Concludes, that he's a true-born Englishman; And they, 'tis known, are generous and free, Forgetting, and forgiving injury: Which may be true, thus rightly understood, Forgiving ill turns, and forgetting good.

Cheerful in labour when they've undertook it, But out of humour, when they're out of pocket.

But if their belly and their pocket's full, They may be phlegmatic, but never dull: And if a bottle does their brains refine, It makes their wit as sparkling as their wine.

As for the general vices which we find, They're guilty of in common with mankind, Satire forbear, and silently endure, We must conceal the crimes we cannot cure; Nor shall my verse the brighter s.e.x defame, For English beauty will preserve her name; Beyond dispute agreeable and fair, And modester than other nations are; For where the vice prevails, the great temptation Is want of money more than inclination; In general this only is allow'd, They're something noisy, and a little proud.

An Englishman is gentlest in command, Obedience is a stranger in the land: Hardly subjected to the magistrate; For Englishmen do all subjection hate.

Humblest when rich, but peevish when they're poor, And think whate'er they have, they merit more.

The meanest English plowman studies law, And keeps thereby the magistrates in awe, Will boldly tell them what they ought to do, And sometimes punish their omissions too.

Their liberty and property's so dear, They scorn their laws or governors to fear; So bugbear'd with the name of slavery, They can't submit to their own liberty.