[176] This stanza, printed in the edition of 1786, was omitted from the later editions.

THE REFUGEES' PETITION TO SIR GUY
CARLETON[177]

Humbly Sheweth—
That your Honour's petitioners,[178] Tories by trade,
 From the first of the war have lent Britain their aid,
 And done all they could, both in country and town,
 In support of the king and the rights of his crown;
 But now, to their grief and confusion, they find
 "The de'il may take them who are farthest behind."
In the rear of all rascals they still have been placed
 And Rebels and Frenchmen[179] full often have faced,
 Have been in the midst of distresses and doubt
 Whene'er they came in or whene'er they went out;
 Have supported the king and defended his church
 And now, in the end, must be left in the lurch.
Though often, too often, his arms were disgraced,
 We still were in hopes he would conquer at last,
 And restore us again to our sweethearts and wives
 The pride of our hearts and the joy of our lives—
 But he promised too far, and we trusted too much,
 And who could have looked for a war with the Dutch?
Our board broken up, and discharged from our stations,
 Sir Guy! it is cruel to cut off our rations;
 Of a project like that, whoe'er was the mover,
 It is, we must tell you, a hellish manœuvre,
 A plan to destroy us—the basest of tricks
 By means of starvation, a stigma to fix.[180]
If a peace be intended, as people surmise,
 (Though we hope from our souls these are nothing but lies)
 Inform us at once what we have to expect,
 Nor treat us, as usual, with surly neglect;
 Or else, while you Britons are shipping your freights[181]
 We'll go to the Rebels, and get our estates.

[177] First published in the Freeman's Journal, August 28, 1782. Sir Guy Carleton's generous and humane nature was in marked contrast with the cruelty of his predecessors. Text is from the edition of 1809.

[178] The anxiety of the Tories during the closing months of the war was exceedingly great. Sir Guy Carleton, the commander-in-chief, was, during all his stay in America, delayed with petitions, complaints, and remonstrances.

[179] "Halters and gibbets."—Ed. 1786.

[180] "To get us away to the shallows of Styx."—Ed. 1786.

[181] "By the mass and the will of the fates."—Ib.

SIR GUY'S ANSWER

We have reason to think there will soon be a peace,
 And that war with the Rebels will certainly cease;
 But, be that as it will, I would have you to know
 That as matters are changing, we soon may change too;
 In short, I would say, (since I have it at heart)
 Though the war should continue, yet we may depart.
Four offers in season I therefore propose,
 (As much as I can do in reason, God knows)
 In which, though there be not too plentiful carving,
 There still is sufficient to keep you from starving.
And, first of the first, it would mightily charm me
 To see you, my children, enlist in the army,
 Or enter the navy, and get for your pay,
 A farthing an hour, which is sixpence per day—
 There's Hector Clackmanan, and Arthur O'Gregor
 And Donald M'Donald shall rule you with vigour:
If these do not suit you, then take your new plan,
 Make your peace with the rebels, (march off to a man):[182]
 There rank and distinction perhaps you may find
 And rise into offices fit to your mind—
 But if still you object—I advise you to take a
 Farewell to New-York—and away to Jamaica.[183]

[182] "That is, if you can."—Ed. 1786.

[183]

"But if still you object—to be all on a level,
 Burn up your red coats and go off to the Devil."
 —Ib.

TO A CONCEALED ROYALIST[184]

On a Virulent Attack

"We have force to crumble you into dust, although you were as hard as rocks, adamant, or jasper."

Kien-Lhi, alias John Tuck, Viceroy of Canton.[185]

When round the bark the howling tempest raves
 Tossed in the conflict of a thousand waves,
 The lubber landsmen weep, complain, and sigh,
 And on the pilot's skill, or heaven, rely;
 Lurk in their holes, astonished and aghast,
 Dreading the moment that must be their last.
 The tempest done—their terror also ceases,
 And up they come, and shew their shameless faces,
 At once feel bold, and tell the pilot, too,
 He did no more than they—themselves—could do!
 A Foe to Tyrants! one your pen restores:—
 There is a Tyrant whom your soul adores:
 And every line you write too plainly shows,
 Your heart is hostile to that tyrant's foes.
 What, worse than folly, urged this genius dull
 With Churchill's[186] wreathes to shade his leaden scull:
 So, midnight darkness union claims with light:
 So, oil and water in one mass unite:—
 No more your rage in plundered verse repeat,
 Sink into prose—even there no safe retreat.[187]
 Reed's[188] patriot fame to distant years may last,
 When rancorous reptiles to the dogs are cast,
 Or, where oblivion spreads her weary wings,
 Lost in the lumber of forgotten things;
 And none shall ask, nor wish to know, nor care,
 Who—what their names—or when they lived—or where.[189]

[184] During the summer of 1782 the Freeman's Journal waged a bitter warfare with the Independent Gazetteer, a paper which had been established in Philadelphia on April 13, 1782, by Eleazer Oswald. To such extremes did this quarrel go that Oswald, defeated by the more nimble pen of his adversary, at length challenged him to a duel. The above poem marks the beginning of the poetical phase of the battle. It appeared in the Journal on the 28th of August and was a reply to the following effusion published in the Gazetteer four days previously:

"Mr. Oswald: The following lines are addressed to a most infamous Tyrant, ... and to a noted speculator when high in office. Yours, &c.,

A Foe to Tyrants.

"Be wicked as you will, do all that's base,
 Proclaim yourselves the monsters of your race,
 Let vice and folly your dark souls divide,
 Be proud with meanness and be mean with pride,
 Deaf to the voice of faith and honour, fall
 From side to side, yet be of none at all:
 Spurn all those charities, those sacred ties,
 Which nature, in her bounty, good as wise,
 To work our safety and ensure her plan,
 Contriv'd to bind and rivet man to man:
 Lift against Virtue pow'r's oppressive rod,
 Betray your country, and deny your God."
 But candour in some future day will scan
 The actions of pale Joe and brazen Sam,
 Who're lost to virtue and all sense of shame,
 They've barter'd honour for some villain's name:
 Yet may they pass unnotic'd in the throng
 And, free from envy, safely sneak along;
 Let Clarkson tell how Joe is in disgrace
 And honest Jack will follow up the chase."

[185] This title first appeared in the 1809 edition. In the edition of 1795 the title was "To Shylock Ap-Shenkin, an abusive court writer."

[186] The twelve lines in quotation points in the poem by "The Foe to Tyrants" were taken, with little change, from Churchill's "Epistle to William Hogarth."

[187] "Sneak into prose—the dunce's last retreat."—Ed. 1786.

[188] The attack of "The Foe to Tyrants" was directed mainly against General Joseph Reed, the "pale Joe" of the poem. So bitter and persistent were the attacks of "Oswald's Scribblers" that Reed, in the Journal of Sept. 11, published a protest against the "set of men in this city [who] uninjured and unprovoked by me are weekly pouring forth some abuse under anonymous signatures." And early in 1783 he put forth a pamphlet entitled "Remarks on a late publication in the Independent Gazetteer, with a short address to the people of Pennsylvania on the many libels and slanders which have lately appeared against the author." A second edition was called for several weeks after the first issue of this pamphlet.

[189] Freneau signed these lines as they appeared in the Journal "A Foe to Malice."

TO THE CONCEALED ROYALIST[190]

In Answer to a Second Attack[191]

Quid immerentes hospites vexas, canis
 Ignavus adversum lupos?
 Quin huc inanes, si potes, vertis minas,
 Et me remorsurum petis?—
—Hor. Epod. 10.
Base as they are, this rancorous royal crew[192]
 Seem baser still, when they are praised by you.
 By you adorned in regal garb they shine,
 Sweat through your verse, and stink in every line.
 True child of folly—eldest of her tribe—
 How could you dream that you were worth a bribe.—
 Ill-fated scribbler, with a pointless quill,
 Retract the threat you dare not to fulfil:
 Round your own neck the wythe or halter twine,
 And be the science of a hangman thine:—[193]
 Have we from you purloined one shred of wit,
 Or did we imitate one line you writ?
 Peace to your verse!—we do not rob the dead,
 The clay-cold offspring of a brazen head.
 Doctor! retire! what madness would it be
 To point artillery at a mite like thee?—
 Such noxious vermin clambering from their shell,
 By squibs and crackers might be killed as well.
 But, if you must torment the world with rhymes,
 (Perhaps you came to curse us for our crimes)
 In sleepy odes indulge your smoky wit,
 Pindarics would your happy genius fit—
 With your coarse white-wash daub some miscreant's face,
 Puppies advanced, or traitors in disgrace:[194]
 To gain immense renown we leave you free,
 Go, scratch and scribble, uncontrouled by me:—
 Haste to the realms of nonsense and despair—
 The ghosts of murdered rhymes will meet you there;
 Like rattling chains provoke unceasing fears,
 And with eternal jinglings—stun your ears.

[190] This poem appeared in the Journal, September 4, 1782, in answer to the following, which had been published in the Gazetteer, August 31, 1782:

"Mr. Oswald: Please give the following Lines, addressed to the Foe to Malice, a Place in your useful Paper; in order to convince this great Poet (who never borrowed a Line in his Life) how easy it is to take his Battery, and turn it against himself.

A Foe to Tyrants.

"When in the Bark, the unskilful Pilot raves,
 And lets her drive amidst conflicting waves;
 The free-born Landsmen rous'd, complain, and cry.
 What Pilot's this, on whom we can't rely?
 We're wreck'd, undone, and driven on the shore,
 Unless you quit the helm, and steer no more.
 The Pilot, conscious of the mischief done,
 Not knowing what to do, or where to run,
 Lurks to his hole, astonish'd and aghast,
 Dreading the moment that must be his last.
 The tempest o'er—his terrors also fled,
 Once more upon the deck he shews his head,
 At once grown brave, he tells the people too,
 He did for them, whatever man could do.
 But cease thy boasting—Freemen all will think,
 A Bark thus manag'd, in the deep must sink.
"A Foe to Tyrants—ne'er receiv'd a Bribe,
 Nor Gold ador'd, nor stuck to Johnston's side;
 With malice stupid, ev'ry line must show,
 The man that's Johnston's friend is not thy foe.
 What wond'rous fancy urg'd thy genius bright,
 To speak of Churchill—as if thou coud'st write;
 To shine in borrow'd plumes, with base design,
 And to oblivion worthy men consign.
 Reptiles and Dogs, and all those dreary things,
 Bespeak the mind from whence such slander springs;
 Dirt thou may'st throw—the dunce's last retreat,
 For none but dunces will thy lines repeat.
 Not Churchill's wreathes, but hick'ry withes will do,
 To twine thy brows, and lace thy jacket too;
 Leave thy friend R——, we've had enough of him,
 For abler Pilots live the Bark to trim.
 What! if a thousand Joes should wince and bawl,
 One honest Jack would make amends for all."

[191] The title in the edition of 1786 was "To the Foe to Tyrants," and in 1795 "To Shylock Ap-Shenkin." Freneau translates the stanza from Horace as follows: "A dog, cowardly against wolves, yet molests strangers that have no quarrel with him—approach, whelp, and attack us, who are able to dash your teeth down your throat."

[192] "Vile as they are, this lukewarm Tory crew."—Ed. 1786.

[193]

"And round your neck the wythe or halter twine,
 And be the office of the hangman mine."—Ed. 1786.

[194] "Blockheads in power or traitors in disgrace."—Ed. 1786.

TO THE CONCEALED ROYALIST[195]

On His Farewell

"I will meet you, Brutus, at Philippi."—Roman History.

Since ink, thank heaven! is all the blood you spill,
 Health to the driver of the grey goose quill:
 Such war shall leave no widow in despair,
 Nor curse one orphan with the public care.
 'Tis the worst wound the heart of man can feel,
 When touched, or worried, by an ass's heel—
 With generous satire give your foes their due,
 Nay, give them more, and prove them scoundrels too:
 Make them as black as hell's remotest gloom,
 But still to genius let them owe their doom:—
 By Jove's red lightnings 'tis no shame to bleed,
 But by a grovelling swine—is death indeed!—
 Now, by the laurels of your royal crew,
 I knew no shame, till I engaged with you:—
 But such an odour atmosphered your song,
 I held my nose, and quickly passed along,
 Grieved for the wretch who could such filth display,
 His maw disgorging in the public way.
 Armed though we are, unusual tumults rise;—
 But all resentment in my bosom dies.
 We deem, that in the skirmish of a day,
 This bard must perish, and his verse decay:
 This day he goes to black oblivion's clime;
 Turned, chased, and routed by the "power of rhyme."
 We wished him still unhandled and unhurt—
 We wished no evils to this man of dirt;
 We thought to leave him sweltering in his den,
 Not with such rotten trash to tinge the pen:
 But his mean labours wrought his present woe,
 And his own scribblings, now, have laid him low!
 Before his eyes the sexton's spade appears,
 And muffled bells disorganize his ears:
 Already is his mean existence fled,
 Sense, wit, and reason—all proclaim him dead:
 In his own lines he tolled his funeral bell,
 And when he could not sing—he stunk—farewell!

[195] In the Journal of September 11, 1782, in answer to the effusion of the "Foe to Tyrants" in the Gazetteer of September 7, entitled, "To the Foe to Malice. The Farewell." This farewell began as follows:

"When men will prostitute the power of rhime,
 Their dirt and malice jingling out of time;
 When men the sacred shrine of truth forsake,
 And deal in slander, just for slander's sake,
 'Tis time to quit plain reason, common sense,
 And in their stile Correction to dispense.
"Our Theme first pointed to your pale-fac'd friend
 Whom you forsook—unable to defend;
 To save his fame, you thought it best to fly
 To vile abuse, and low scurrility;
 Then feel the Weapons you yourself have us'd
 And blame not those you've dirtily abus'd."

The rest of the poem is too vile to reproduce.

TO THE ROYALIST UNVEILED[196]

(And addressed to all whom it may concern)

The sage who took the wrong sow by the ears,
 And more than kingdoms claimed for Vermonteers;
 Who, from twelve wigwams down to eight decreased,
 Is now your prophet, and may serve for priest—
 Ye, who embraced the democratic plan,
 Yet with false tears beheld the wrongs of man—
 To him apply—go—soothe him in distress,[197]
 To him fall prostrate—and to him confess.
 When first that slave of slaves began to write,
 Truth cursed his pen, and Reason took her flight:
 Dullness on him her choicest opiates shed,
 Black as his heart, and sleepy as his head.
 Him on her soil Hibernia could not bear;
 The viper sickened in that wholesome air,—
 Then rushed abroad, a Jesuit, in disguise,
 Flush, on the wings of malice, rage, and lies;
 To this new world a nuisance and a pest,
 To curse the worthy, and abuse the best.
 Thou base born mass of insolence and dirt,
 With all the will, but not the power to hurt;
 Whose shallow brain each empty line reveals—
 Art thou worth draggling at our chariot wheels?
 Who, on the surface of a rugged ground,
 Would stoop to trail your carcass round and round?—
 No—like a Felon, hanged to after time,
 Be one more victim to the "force of rhyme."
 Waft us, ye powers, to some sequestered place,
 Where never malice shewed its hateful face—
 Remove us far from all the ruffian kind
 (Baseness with insolence forever joined)
 To some retreat of solitude and rest—
 Nor shall another pang disturb the breast—
 When thought returns—and one regrets to know,
 He had to combat with a two-faced foe.

[196] This poem appeared September 25, 1782. The laureate of the Independent Gazetteer, after his farewell on September 7, was silent until October 15, when he produced the following:

"Stanzas addressed to little Fr—n—u, Poetaster to the Skunk-scented association, and successful imitator of Sternhold and Hopkins, of poetical memory; in humble imitation of his own doggerel.

"Fr—n—u, great man! 'tis thee I sing,
 And to thy shrine just incense bring
 The attribute of praise;
 To thee, who scorn'd all common rules,
 Supreme of dunces, chief of fools,
 I dedicate my lays.
"Sternhold is dead! What though he be?
 Another Sternhold now in thee
 Beotia's sons explore;
 Like this, thy mind is clear and bright,
 Transparent as the darkest night,
 When angry tempests roar.
"Thy verse, but ah! my powers are vain,
 To tell the wonders of thy brain
 Where mists of dullness sit;
 Cimmerian darkness round thy head,
 It's sable mantle long hath spread,
 To veil thy wooden wit.
"Thy satire, mystic type of lead,
 Keen as a dart without a head,
 And vigorous as age;
 'Twould almost make a mill-stone cry
 To have thy muse its enemy,
 When cloathed in her rage.
"Thy bold, heroic numbers swell,
 As lofty as the deepest well
 Where noxious vapours rise;
 Thy song as sweet as Bellman's note,
 When spun through Mitchell's[a] brazen throat,
 Or midnight Watchmen's cries.
"Thy eyes, the index of the soul,
 With mad, poetic fury roll,
 In eager search of fame;
 Thy face, ye gods! ah! what a face!
 Thy air, thy port, thy quaint grimmace,
 Add honor to thy name.
"When, late, sleep's Goddess, clos'd my eyes,
 And dreams in sweet gradation rise,
 Soul-soothing guests of night,
 Methought the cloud-invelop'd Queen[b]
 Display'd her dull, somnific mien,
 In majesty and might.
"Thick, opiate dews she did dispense,
 Whilst poppies, foes to wit and sense,
 Hung pendant from her head;
 Safe in her hand, by love, impell'd.
 Great Fr—n—u's sacred form she held,
 Impress'd on genuine lead.
"With blinking, am'rous, rush-light eyes
 She view'd her blest Saturnine prize,
 As conscious of his worth;
 Then smooth'd the wrinkles of her frown,
 And shook her poppy-teeming crown,
 With unaffected mirth.
"'Go on (she cry'd), with fervent zeal,
 Thou glory of that common-weal,
 Where dullness bears the sway!
 E'en L—e to thee shall yield the chair,
 His rhimes shall vanish into air,
 Before thy duller lay.
"'Corcoran,[c] long ago, hath fled,
 And roving Jem,[d] 'tis said, is dead,
 Those foes to common sense;
 Now Fr—n—u thou, their son and heir.
 More stupid than a stupid mare,
 Steps forth in my defence.
"'Thee shall no wisdom e'er molest,
 No wit shall perforate thy breast,
 Nor humour shew her face;
 Thy drowsy verse shall prove a balm,
 Specific as the hundredth psalm,
 When W—ch—r sings base.
"'Each flow'r of Billingsgate I'll cull,
 To render thee, my son, more dull,
 If duller thou canst be,
 Thy works with Sternhold's shall be bound,
 While Hopkins, from the dark profound,
 Shall yield the palm to thee.'
"She ceas'd, and all that own'd her cause,
 In one loud transport of applause,
 Burst like a sudden gale;
 All hail, great man! was Bailey's cry,
 Hail! Joe, and Skunk, and Tom, reply,
 Dullness and Fr—n—u, hail!"

[a] Cryer of Philadelphia.

[b] The Queen of Dullness.

[c] Dr. Corcoran, a poetaster, well known.

[d] Jemmy, the rover, a sonnetter of the Pennsylvania line.

[197] "To him apply, dear Oswald, in distress."—Independent Gazetteer.

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[198]

Long have I sate on this disastrous shore,
 And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
 To Europe's courts, where, as our travellers say,
 Poets may flourish, or—perhaps—they may;
 But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
 Perhaps I may defer my voyage as well,
 Why should I far in search of patrons roam,
 And Shylock leave to triumph here at home?
 Should Shylock's poems[199] style you all that's base,
 Abuse your stature, and malign[200] your face,
 Make you the worst and vilest of your kind,
 With not one spark of virtue[201] in your mind;
 Would you to Shylock's[202] rancorous page reply,
 So fam'd for scandal, and so prone to lie?
 Still may those bag-pipes of sedition play,
 (For fools may write[203] and knaves must have their day)
 Still from that page let clamorous bards[204] defame,
 And madness rave, and malice take her aim:
 May scribes on scribes in verse and prose combine,
 And fiend-like Sawney roar[205] through every line;
 Long may they write, unquestion'd and unhurt,
 And all their rage discharge, and all their dirt:
 Night-owls must screech, by heaven's supreme decree,
 And wolves must howl, or wolves they would not be.
 From empty froth these scribbling insects rose;
 What honest man but counts them for his foes?
 When they are lash'd, may dunce with dunce condole,
 And bellow nonsense from the tortured soul;
 When they are dead and in some dungeon cramm'd,
 (For die they will, and all their works be damn'd)
 When they have belch'd their last departing groans,
 May dogs and doctors barbecue[206] their bones,
 And, the last horrors of their souls to calm,
 Shylock, their bard,[207] console them with—a psalm!

[198] The first eight lines of this poem appeared first as the opening stanza of MacSwiggin, published in 1775; the rest of the poem was first published in the Freeman's Journal of Dec. 18, 1782, and republished in the 1786 edition under the title "To Whom it may Concern." The above version was made for the edition of 1795, but was not reprinted in 1809.

The Gazetteer of the following week (Dec. 21) contained several parodies of Freneau's poem, one of which was as follows:

"Mr. Oswald:—Whereas a copy of verses of my composition appeared in Bailey's paper, of whom I should have expected more circumspection, I have sent you a genuine copy as they ought to have been printed, the justice of which I hope everybody acquainted with the persons will acknowledge.

The Author.

"Should Oswald's painters all my features trace,
 And shew me as I am in soul and face;
 Among the vile and worthless of mankind,
 Without a spark of virtue in my mind,
 And write my name beneath, I would reply,
 The portrait, though a true one, told a lie.
 "Still shall my bagpipes of sedition play,
 And I, like other dogs, shall have my day;
 My hoarse-mouth'd cry shall war with sense proclaim,
 And madly howl at ev'ry virtuous name;
 Our hungry scribes in verse and prose shall join,
 Though Chaos glooms through ev'ry stupid line;
 In spite of sense we'll write, by shame unhurt,
 And all our rage discharge, and all our dirt,
 Night-owls will screech, since Heav'n has left them free,
 And wolves will howl, or wolves they would not be.
 "Although from dirt, we like musquetoes rose,
 And quiet people count us still their foes;
 When we are crush'd, or chas'd from hole to hole,
 We'll strive to tease and torture ev'ry soul.
 When we are dead and in some ditch are cram'd
 (For die we must, and with our works be damn'd),
 When we shall howl our last departing groans,
 And brother dogs regale upon our bones;
 The horrors of our souls awhile to calm,
 Let me compose, and Duffield sing a psalm."