The True-Born Englishman Part 3

Restraint from ill is freedom to the wise!

But Englishmen do all restraint despise.

Slaves to the liquor, drudges to the pots; The mob are statesmen, and their statesmen sots.

Their governors, they count such dang'rous things, That 'tis their custom to affront their kings: So jealous of the power their kings possess'd, They suffer neither power nor kings to rest.

The bad with force they eagerly subdue; The good with constant clamours they pursue, And did King Jesus reign, they'd murmur too.

A discontented nation, and by far Harder to rule in times of peace than war: Easily set together by the ears, And full of causeless jealousies and fears: Apt to revolt, and willing to rebel, And never are contented when they're well.

No government could ever please them long, Could tie their hands, or rectify their tongue.

In this, to ancient Israel well compared, Eternal murmurs are among them heard.

It was but lately, that they were oppress'd, Their rights invaded, and their laws suppress'd: When nicely tender of their liberty, Lord! what a noise they made of slavery.

In daily tumults show'd their discontent, Lampoon'd their king, and mock'd his government.

And if in arms they did not first appear, 'Twas want of force, and not for want of fear.

In humbler tone than English used to do, At foreign hands for foreign aid they sue.

William, the great successor of Na.s.sau, Their prayers heard, and their oppressions saw; He saw and saved them: G.o.d and him they praised To this their thanks, to that their trophies raised.

But glutted with their own felicities, They soon their new deliverer despise; Say all their prayers back, their joy disown, Unsing their thanks, and pull their trophies down; Their harps of praise are on the willows hung; For Englishmen are ne'er contented long.

The reverend clergy too, and who'd ha' thought That they who had such non-resistance taught, Should e'er to arms against their prince be brought Who up to heav'n did regal power advance; Subjecting English laws to modes of France Twisting religion so with loyalty, As one could never live, and t'other die; And yet no sooner did their prince design Their glebes and perquisites to undermine, But all their pa.s.sive doctrines laid aside, The clergy their own principles denied; Unpreach'd their non-resisting cant, and pray'd To heav'n for help, and to the Dutch for aid; The church chimed all her doctrines back again, And pulpit-champions did the cause maintain; Flew in the face of all their former zeal, And non-resistance did at once repeal.

The Rabbi's say it would be too prolix, To tie religion up to politics, The churches' safety is _suprema lex_: And so by a new figure of their own, Their former doctrines all at once disown; As laws _post facto_ in the parliament, In urgent cases have attained a.s.sent; But are as dangerous precedents laid by, Made lawful only by necessity.

The rev'rend fathers then in arms appear, And men of G.o.d became the men of war: The nation, fired by them, to arms apply, a.s.sault their antichristian monarchy; To their due channel all our laws restore, And made things what they should have been before.

But when they came to fill the vacant throne, And the pale priests look'd back on what they'd done, How England liberty began to thrive, And Church of England loyality outlive; How all their persecuting days were done, And their deliv'rer placed upon the throne: The priests, as priests are wont to do, turn'd tail, They're Englishmen, and nature will prevail; Now they deplore their ruins they have made, And murmur for the master they betray'd; Excuse those crimes they could not make him mend, And suffer for the cause they can't defend; Pretend they'd not have carried things so high, And proto-martyrs make for popery.

Had the prince done as they design'd the thing, High set the clergy up to rule the king: Taken a donative for coming hither, And so have left their king and them together; We had, say they, been now a happy nation; No doubt we had seen a blessed reformation: For wise men say 'tis as dangerous a thing, A ruling priesthood, as a priest-rid king; And of all plagues with which mankind are curst, Ecclesiastic tyranny's the worst.

If all our former grievances were feign'd, King James has been abused, and we trepann'd; Bugbear'd with popery and power despotic, Tyrannic government, and leagues exotic; The revolution's a fanatic plot, William's a tyrant, King James was not; A factious army and a poison'd nation, Unjustly forced King James's abdication.

But if he did the subjects' rights invade, Then he was punish'd only, not betrayed; And punishing of kings is no such crime, But Englishmen have done it many a time.

When kings the sword of justice first lay down, They are no kings, though they possess the crown.

t.i.tles are shadows, crowns are empty things, The good of subjects is the end of kings; To guide in war, and to protect in peace, Where tyrants once commence the kings do cease; For arbitrary power's so strange a thing, It makes the tyrant and unmakes the king: If kings by foreign priests and armies reign, And lawless power against their oaths maintain, Then subjects must have reason to complain: If oaths must bind us when our kings do ill, To call in foreign aid is to rebel: By force to circ.u.mscribe our lawful prince, Is wilful treason in the largest sense: And they who once rebel, must certainly Their G.o.d, and king, and former oaths defy; If ye allow no mal-administration Could cancel the allegiance of the nation, Let all our learned sons of Levi try, This ecclesiastic riddle to untie; How they could make a step to call the prince, And yet pretend the oath and innocence.

By th' first address they made beyond the seas, They're perjur'd in the most intense degrees; And without scruple for the time to come, May swear to all the kings in Christendom: Nay, truly did our kings consider all, They'd never let the clergy swear at all, Their politic allegiance they'd refuse, For wh.o.r.es and priests do never want excuse.

But if the mutual contract was dissolved, The doubt's explain'd, the difficulty solved; That kings, when they descend to tyranny, Dissolve the bond, and leave the subject free; The government's ungirt when justice dies, And const.i.tutions are nonent.i.ties.

The nation's all a mob, there's no such thing, As lords, or commons, parliament, or king; A great promiscuous crowd the Hydra lies, Till laws revive and mutual contract ties; A chaos free to choose for their own share, What case of government they please to wear; If to a king they do the reins commit, All men are bound in conscience to submit; But then the king must by his oath a.s.sent, To _Postulata's_ of the government; Which if he breaks he cuts off the entail, And power retreats to its original.

This doctrine has the sanction of a.s.sent From nature's universal Parliament: The voice of nations, and the course of things, Allow that laws superior are to kings; None but delinquents would have justice cease, Knaves rail at laws, as soldiers rail at peace: For justice is the end of government, As reason is the test of argument: No man was ever yet so void of sense, As to debate the right of self-defence; A principle so grafted in the mind, With nature born, and does like nature bind; Twisted with reason, and with nature too, As neither one nor t'other can undo.

Nor can this right be less when national, Reason which governs one should govern all; Whate'er the dialect of courts may tell, He that his right demands can ne'er rebel; Which right, if 'tis by governors denied, May be procured by force or foreign aid; For tyranny's a nation's term of grief, As folks cry fire to hasten in relief; And when the hated word is heard about, All men should come to help the people out.

Thus England groan'd, Britannia's voice was heard, And great Na.s.sau to rescue her appear'd: Call'd by the universal voice of fate, G.o.d and the people's legal magistrate: Ye heavens regard! Almighty Jove look down, And view thy injured monarch on the throne; On their ungrateful heads due vengeance take Who sought his aid, and then his part forsake: Witness, ye powers! it was our call alone, Which now our pride makes us ashamed to own; Britannia's troubles fetch'd him from afar, To court the dreadful casualties of war; But where requital never can be made, Acknowledgment's a tribute seldom paid.

He dwelt in bright Maria's circling arms, Defended by the magic of her charms, From foreign fears and from domestic harms; Ambition found no fuel for her fire, He had what G.o.d could give or man desire, Till pity roused him from his soft repose, His life to unseen hazards to expose; Till pity moved him in our cause to appear, Pity! that word which now we hate to hear; But English grat.i.tude is always such, To hate the hand that does oblige too much.

Britannia's cries gave birth to his intent, And hardly gain'd his unforeseen a.s.sent; His boding thoughts foretold him he should find The people fickle, selfish, and unkind; Which thought did to his royal heart appear More dreadful than the dangers of the war; For nothing grates a generous mind so soon, As base returns for hearty service done.

Satire, be silent! awfully prepare Britannia's song, and William's praise to hear; Stand by, and let her cheerfully rehea.r.s.e Her grateful vows in her immortal verse.

Loud fame's eternal trumpet let her sound, Listen, ye distant poles, and endless round, May the strong blast the welcome news convey, As far as sound can reach or spirit fly!

To neighb'ring worlds, if such there be, relate Our heroes fame for theirs to imitate; To distant worlds of spirits let her rehea.r.s.e, For spirits without the helps of voice converse: May angels hear the gladsome news on high, Mix'd with their everlasting symphony; And h.e.l.l itself stand in surprise to know, Whether it be the fatal blast or no.

BRITANNIA.

The fame of virtue 'tis for which I sound, And heroes with immortal triumphs crown'd; Fame built on solid virtue swifter flies, Than morning light can spread the eastern skies: The gath'ring air returns the doubling sound; And loud repeating thunders force it round; Echoes return from caverns of the deep, Old Chaos dreams on't in eternal sleep: Time hands it forward to its latest urn, From whence it never, never shall return: Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long, 'Tis heard by ev'ry ear, and spoke by every tongue.

My hero, with the sails of honour furl'd, Rises like the great genius of the world; By fate and fame wisely prepared to be The soul of war and life of victory; He spreads the wings of virtue on the throne, And ev'ry wind of glory fans them on; Immortal trophies dwell upon his brow, Fresh as the garlands he has won but now.

By different steps the high ascent he gains, And differently that high ascent maintains: Princes for pride and l.u.s.t of rule make war, And struggle for the name of conqueror; Some fight for fame, and some for victory, He fights to save, and conquers to set free.

Then seek no phrase his t.i.tles to conceal, And hide with words what actions must reveal; No parallel from Hebrew stories take, Of G.o.dlike kings my similies to make; No borrowed names conceal my living theme, But names and things directly I proclaim; His honest merit does his glory raise, Whom that exalts let no man fear to praise; Of such a subject no man need be shy, Virtue's above the reach of flattery; He needs no character but his own fame, Nor any flattering t.i.tles but his own name.

William's the name that's spoke by every tongue, William's the darling subject of my song; Listen, ye virgins, to the charming sound, And in eternal dances hand it round; Your early offerings to this altar bring, Make him at once a lover and a king; May he submit to none but to your arms, Nor ever be subdued, but by your charms; May your soft thoughts for him be all sublime, And ev'ry tender vow be made for him; May he be first in ev'ry morning thought, And heav'n ne'er hear a prayer where he's left out; May every omen, every boding dream, Be fortunate by mentioning his name; May this one charm infernal powers affright, And guard you from the terror of the night; May ev'ry cheerful gla.s.s as it goes down To William's health, be cordials to your own: Let ev'ry song be chorust with his name, And music pay her tribute to his fame; Let ev'ry poet tune his artful verse, And in immortal strains his deeds rehea.r.s.e: And may Apollo never more inspire The disobedient bard with his seraphic fire May all my sons their grateful homage pay, His praises sing, and for his safety pray.

Satire, return to our unthankful isle, Secured by heaven's regards, and William's toil: To both ungrateful, and to both untrue, Rebels to G.o.d, and to good nature too.

If e'er this nation be distress'd again, To whomsoe'er they cry, they'll cry in vain; To heav'n they cannot have the face to look, Or, if they should, it would but heav'n provoke; To hope for help from man would be too much, Mankind would always tell 'em of the Dutch: How they came here our freedoms to maintain, Were paid, and cursed, and hurried home again; How by their aid we first dissolved our fears, And then our helpers d.a.m.n'd for foreigners: 'Tis not our English temper to do better, For Englishmen think ev'ry one their debtor.

'Tis worth observing, that we ne'er complain'd Of foreigners, nor of the wealth we gain'd, Till all their services were at an end: Wise men affirm it is the English way, Never to grumble till they come to pay; And then they always think, their temper's such, The work too little, and the pay too much.

As frighted patients, when they want a cure, Bid any price, and any pain endure: But when the doctor's remedies appear, The cure's too easy, and the price too dear: Great Portland near was banter'd when he strove, For us his master's kindest thoughts to move: We ne'er lampoon'd his conduct, when employ'd King James's secret councils to divide: Then we caress'd him as the only man, Who could the doubtful oracle explain; The only Hushai, able to repel The dark designs of our Achitophel: Compared his master's courage to his sense, The ablest statesman, and the bravest prince; On his wise conduct we depended much, And liked him ne'er the worse for being Dutch: Nor was he valued more than he deserved, Freely he ventured, faithfully he served; In all King William's dangers he has shared, In England's quarrels always he appear'd: The revolution first, and then the Boyne, In both, his counsels and his conduct shine; His martial valour Flanders will confess, And France regrets his managing the peace; Faithful to England's interest and her king, The greatest reason of our murmuring: Ten years in English service he appear'd, And gain'd his master's and the world's regard; But 'tis not England's custom to reward, The wars are over, England needs him not; Now he's a Dutchman, and the Lord knows what.

Schonbergh, the ablest soldier of his age, With great Na.s.sau did in our cause engage; Both join'd for England's rescue and defence, The greatest captain and the greatest prince; With what applause his stories did we tell, Stories which Europe's volumes largely swell!

We counted him an army in our aid, Where he commanded, no man was afraid; His actions with a constant conquest shine, From Villa Vitiosa to the Rhine; France, Flanders, Germany, his fame confess, And all the world was fond of him but us: Our turn first served, we grudged him the command, Witness the grateful temper of the land.

We blame the King, that he relies too much, On Strangers, Germans, Hugonots, and Dutch; And seldom does his great affairs of state, To English counsellors communicate: The fact might very well be answer'd thus: He had so often been betray'd by us, He must have been a madman to rely, On English gentlemen's fidelity; For, laying other argument aside: This thought might mortify our English pride; That foreigners have faithfully obey'd him, And none but Englishmen have e'er betray'd him: They have our ships and merchants bought and sold, And barter'd English blood for foreign gold; First to the French they sold our Turkey fleet, And injured Talmarsh next at Cameret; The king himself is shelter'd from their snares, Not by his merits, but the crown he wears; Experience tells us 'tis the English way, Their benefactors always to betray.

And, lest examples should be too remote, A modern magistrate of famous note, Shall give you his own history by rote; I'll make it out, deny it he that can, His worship is a true-born Englishman; By all the lat.i.tude that empty word, By modern acceptation's understood: The parish books his great descent record, And now he hopes ere long to be a lord; And truly, as things go, it would be pity, But such as he bore office in the city; While robb'ry for burnt-offering he brings, And gives to G.o.d what he has stole from kings; Great monuments of charity he raises, And good St. Magnus whistles out his praises; To city jails he grants a jubilee, And hires huzza's from his own mobile.

Lately he wore the golden chain and gown, With which equipp'd he thus harangued the town.

HIS FINE SPEECH, &c.

With clouted iron shoes, and sheep-skin breeches, More rags than manners, and more dirt than riches, From driving cows and calves to Leyton market, While of my greatness there appear'd no spark yet, Behold I come to let you see the pride, With which exalted beggars always ride.

Born to the needful labours of the plough, The cart-whip graced me, as the chain does now.

Nature and fate in doubt what course to take, Whether I should a lord or plough-boy make; Kindly at last resolv'd they would promote me, And first a knave, and then a knight they vote me.

What fate appointed, nature did prepare, And furnish'd me with an exceeding care, To fit me for what they design'd to have me; And every gift but honesty they gave me.

And thus equipp'd, to this proud town I came, In quest of bread, and not in quest of fame.

Blind to my future fate, an humble boy, Free from the guilt and glory I enjoy.

The hopes which my ambition entertain'd, Where in the name of foot-boy, all contain'd.

The greatest heights from small beginnings rise; The G.o.ds were great on earth, before they reach'd the skies.

Backwell, the generous temper of whose mind, Was always to be bountiful inclin'd: Whether by his ill fate or fancy led, First took me up, and furnish'd me with bread: The little services he put me to, Seem'd labours, rather than were truly so.

But always my advancement he design'd; For 'twas his very nature to be kind: Large was his soul, his temper ever free; The best of masters and of men to me: And I who was before decreed by fate, To be made infamous as well as great, With an obsequious diligence obey'd him, Till trusted with his all, and then betray'd him.