August 8, 1776. No. 571.

PAM’s TRIP to CORNELYS’.

JUST from the knavish pack I’ve slipt,
And here am come a Knave equipt;
To strut a while in vain parade
’Mongst other knaves at Masquerade.
Ye Petit Maitres, pray forbear!

I’ve got the hearts of all the fair.
In vain, bedaub’d with fringe and lace,
Each strives to push his vacant face;
Slides to his nymph tout debonnaire,
And calls her fairest of the fair.

She scorns e’en flattery from You;
Her thoughts are fix’d on dearer Loo.
The most attractive Scavoir Vivre
Did never cause so high a fever,
Or drive away the doleful dumps,

As I the mighty PRINCE of TRUMPS.
   Ye hapless husbands!  who lament
Your absent wives in discontent,
Think not the Beaux your brows adorn,
’Tis I who fix the antling horn;

’Tis I alone the passions raise,
And put the bosom in a blaze.
What modest wife, tho’ meek as lamb,
Can fly the charms of—Flush and Pam?
Thus, tho’ I use no hidden art,

I am sure to gain each female heart;
But, quite unlike the Paphian Boy,
I am most lov’d because I’m coy.
For tho’ I often cause a FLUSH,
I ne’er put beauty to the blush;

And tho’ I’m lov’d, I ne’er am rude,
And she who has ME can’t be Loo’d.
Then husbands, since you know your foe,
There’s little left for you to do;
Let not the sight of powder’d beaux

Again intrude on your repose,
But let your strongest, strictest guards
Be plac’d on ME, on on LOO, CARDS!

August 8, 1776. No. 571.

VERSES from SIR THOMAS MILLS to Mr. GARRICK,
on receiving his Portrait, painted by Mr. DANCE,

GARRICK!  whate’er resembles thee
Must ever claim Regard from me;
Well pleas’d I view thy counter Part,
And highly praise the Painter’s Art.
Arduous the Task is, great the Merit,

To represent that Fire and Spirit,
Those piercing Eyes, that speaking Face,
That form, compos’d of Ease and Grace:—
All this I feel;—could Feelings do,
Then I should be a Painter too;—

I should draw GARRICK, and perchance
Produce a Work, t’outrival DANCE.
   But GARRICK, sure thou needest not send
A Gift of this Sort to thy Friend,
As if that Friend requir’d to see

Something to make him think of thee.
   Who’er has seen thy wond’rous Pow’rs,
Who’er has shar’d thy social Hours,
Can he, can such a one forget
Thy native Humour, Sterling Wit?

No GARRICK—he must surely find,
Deeply imprinted on his Mind,
In such warm Tints thy Form and Face,
No Time or Distance can efface.

August 8, 1776. No. 571.

EN insérant l’ODE suivante, écrite par un gentilhomme de France, 
et envoiée ce printems à son ami à Québec, vous obligerez plusieurs 
de vos lecteurs, aussi bien que            Votre très humble Serviteur. 

A Son EXCELLENCE
Monseigneur GUY CARLETON,
Capitaine-général et Gouverneur en Chef de
     la Province de QUEBEC, &c. &c. &c.

LOIN d’une moitié de la terre,
Fuiant les vices des humains,
Astrée a d’un autre hemisphere
Sçu nous applanir les chemins.
Elle y regne, un mortel auguste

Y tient d’une main ferme et juste
La balance de l’équité;
A son aspect tremble le crime,
Il fuit dans l’éternel abyme
L’oeil perçant d’un Juge irrité.

     O Toi qu’un cœur sincere adore,
Dont le juste seul suit les loix,
Souffre qu’aujourd’hui je t’implore,
Et que j’ose emprunter ta voix.
Toi qu’enfanta la bienfesance,

Viens de vive reconnoissance,
De ma lyre animer le ton,
Eclaire moi de ta lumiere,
Je suis une noble carriere,
Je vais célébrer CARLETON.

     L’iniquité leve le tête,
CARLETON, le glaive à la main,
Va dissiper cette tempête,
Et rendre le tems plus serein.
Vils protecteurs de l’injustice,

Présompteux soutiens du vice,
Tremblez enfin Juges de paix,
CARLETON, vient j’entends sa foudre,
Ils sont deja reduits en poudre,
Ils ne reparoitront jamais.

     O vous qu’a tant vanté la Gréce,
Grand Socrate, auguste Platon,
Que deviendra votre sagesse
Devant celle de CARLETON!
Titus, qu’a juste titre on nomme

Le pere du peuple de Rome,
Les délices du genre humain,
On peut reverer ta memoire,
Mais je vois obscurcir ta gloire
Devant ce nouvel ANTONIN.

     Mais Dieux, quels sinistres nuages,
Jettent le trouble dans nos cœurs,
CARLETON … ce fatal voyage …
Craignons le plus grand des malheurs,
Non … peuples bannissons nos craintes,

Mettons fin à toutes nos plaintes,
CARLETON revient parmi nous;
O ROI, compatissant et tendre,
A nos vœux vous daignez le rendre,
Nos cœurs à jamais sont à vous.

     Peuple heureux d’avoir un tel maître,
Anglois, j’admire ton bonheur,
Ah!  que ne puis-je reparoitre
Dans ces lieux si chers à mon cœur;
Cependant la reconnoissance

Veut que loin de sa présence
Je chante à jamais ses vertus,
Que par ma voix la renommée
Aprenne à l’Europe étonnée,
Qu’il existe un autre TITUS.

August 15, 1776. No. 572.

A NEW SONG:
On the Rebels attempting to storm Quebec, between four and six
o’Clock in the Morning, the 31^st of  December,1775.

                                    I.
COME chear up my Lads, ’tis for Freedom we fight,
Our Foes are at last in a damnable Plight;
Their Schemes are all vanish’d, no Prospect they have,
Their Hopes are all buried in Montgomery’s Grave.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    II.
Should Arnold attempt to attack us again,
Again we’ll convince him his Plans are all vain;
Tho’ we know that he’s desperate, and cruel as Nero,
Yet we also well know he’s by no means a Hero.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    III.
The Difference of Stature I mean not to scan,
E’en Hercules himself was but a low man;
Yet we all know he conquer’d a stout Dragon,
With just as much Ease as Lawe vanquish’d Morgan.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    IV.
’Twas pleasant to see Morgan look down and eye him,
And as pleasant to see Lawe look up and defy him:
Not one of the Yankeys knew they’d caught a Tartar
Till Lawe coolly said, “I give you all Quarter.”
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    V.
Tho’ strange, yet ’tis true, that a lawless Banditti,
Whose Object was Plunder, whose Souls knew no Pity,
Whom Honor nor Justice could ever yet awe,
Should looking for Liberty stumble on Lawe.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    VI.
Our GENERAL is cool, determin’d and steady,
Our Officers brave, and our Soldiers all ready;
Every Man is alert, not a Soul e’er says no,
When order’d to fight, or to shovel off Snow.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    VII.
Our cause is so just, and so free from all Guile,
E’en Judges and Parsons become Rank and File;
For myself I here swear: By the Hopes of my Life,
For my KING, I’ll or fight—beat a Drum-play the Fife.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    VIII.
When my Country’s at Stake, no Distinction I know,
Who’s a Friend to Rebellion, to me is a Foe;
As such I will face him, my Duty demands it,
’Tis not Emulation, but Honor commands it.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    IX.
Then come Brothers Soldiers, Brother Sailors heave too,
(The TARS of Old-England were ever TRUE-BLUE:)
Should the Rebels again the fame game try to play at,
They’ll soon hear you cry, Rouse—Rouse Boys, belay that.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    X.
United let’s live, or united let’s die,
If conquer’d, let who will survive it, not I;
I’d rather be laid in an untimely Grave,
Than live half an Hour an American Slave.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

                                    XI.
Our Fatigues and our Cares will soon be all past,
But our Fame and Renown for Ages will last,
Then cheer up my Lads, and let’s merrily sing,
Huzza for Old-England, and GOD bless the KING.
                                                            DERRY-DOWN, &c.

August 15, 1776. No. 572.

The NORTH-HIGHLAND AND VOLUNTEERS.
A new warlike Song.
Tune:—In the Garb of Old Gaul, &c.

TO humble Rebellion, establish the laws,
To fight in BRITTANNIA’s and LIBERTY’s cause,
Our country now calls, our KING gives the word,
Once more to unsheath the invincible sword.
     And as we’re sprung from heroes of great glory and renown.

     Who always were the ornament and support of the crown,
     Let us, like them, stand nobly forth in Liberty’s fair cause,
     And defy the Rebel Congress to alter our laws.
Our illustrious forefathers who slav’ry disdain’d,
The flight of the proud Roman eagles refrain’d;

No nation but ours could their fury oppose,
Our fathers ne’er turn’d their backs to their foes.
     And as we’re sprung from heroes, &c.
Let us then remember whose blood fills our veins
(And cursed be he who is ancest’ry stains.)

The descendents of heroes who never would yield,
Will approve themselves always the first in the field.
     And as we’re sprung from heroes, &c.
’Tis our Sovereign himself who now calls us forth,
Our chieftains the pride and the flower of the north.

And when such a king and such officers call,
The summons must surely be pleasing to all.
     And we’re sprung from heroes, &c.
Come, then, let us quick to the standard repair,
And share in the toils and the glories of war:

And when under great FRASER’s command we appear,
The proud rebels will soon change their boasting to fear.
     And as we’re sprung from heroes, &c.
To our noble gen’ral a bumper let’s fill
To MACPHERSON, MACLEOD,MACINTOSH, and LOCHIEL,

And ev’ry brave HERO who crosses the main,
To conquer AMERICA over again.
     And as we’re sprung from heroes, &c.                  D.M.               Caledonia, Jan.1, 1776.

August 15, 1776. No. 572.

A l’IMPRIMEUR.

MONSIEUR,
VOUS ferez plaisir à plusieurs de vos pratiques, si vous trouvez place
d’inserer en votre Gazette, les vers suivans présentés à son Excellence
le premier jour de l’année.

TOUT anime aujourd’hui mon cœur,
Le respect va guider mon zele,
     Vers un Heros dont la valeur,
D’un Roi si bienfaisant nous fait voir le modele. 

     Vous êtes l’appui des talens,

Et des Canadiens le vrai Pere;
     Le monde vous doit son Encens,
Moi l’hommage le plus sincere. 

     Que ces derniers évenemens,
     Vont consacrer dans notre tems,

     Un nom que ce pais revere!
            Chaque jour des traits de bonté,
A un chacun vous font connaitre,
     Pour le bien de l’humanité,
Seigneur, le destin vous fit naitre.

 
     O Dieux! que de faits étonnans,
Doivent, dans l’avenir, décorer notre histoire!
Votre place est marquée au temple de mémoire,
     Parmi les plus grands conquerans.
     Plus terrible que le tonnere,

Alexandre par-tout fit sentir sa fureur;
     Il fit les malheurs de la terre,
Et vous en faites le bonheur.
     
     D’une aussi précieuse vie
     Le Ciel doit prolonger le cours;

     Que la gloire file vos jours,
     Et qu’Atropos les oublie.

August 22, 1776. No. 573.

A SONG.
Written the 1^st. of January, 1776, the Day after the
Attack of QUEBEC by the Rebels.
Tune KILLYCRANKY.

                        I.
WHILE †WHITEHEAD sings each New-Year’s Ode
            As stupid as the last, Sir,
Be mine the Task to change the Mode
            And sing the Year that’s past, Sir.
Inspir’d by *Sack still let him write,

            And court vile Adulation,
While I can scribble and can fight
            I envy not his Station. 

                        II. 
            A Day we’ll aye remember,

Our Fears were banish’d far away
            The last Day of December:
A Rebel Rout by Arnold led
            Thought to surprise our City.
But soon the dastard Scoundrel fled

            He fled—and more the Pity. 

                        III.
            ’Tis our’s to pray and hope, Sir,
That Heav’n, in Justice to his Sins,
            Reserves him for a Rope, Sir.

Ye poor deluded Wretches say
            What Motives urg’d you on so,
From House and Home thus far to stray
            Thro’ Ways almost unknown too. 

                        IV
Great Pity ’twas ye did not see

            The Congress meant to mock ye;
How could ye meanly stoop to be
            Commanded by a Jockey?
’Tis not a NAME creates Respect,
            And spite of Hancock’s Will, Sir,

Arnold a Col’nel at Quebec
            Is a Horse-jockey still, Sir. 

                        V.
            This Truth I’ll boldly venture,
To Mankind he’s a foul disgrace,

            As such then—CAVEAT EMPTOR;
Then come, my Friends, the Strain repeat,
            And still this Day remember
While ev’ry Year we’ll celebrate
            The last Day of December.                   W. Brown

† Paul Whitehead, Esq; Poet Laureat.
* A Butt of Sack is his yearly Perquisite.

August 22, 1776. No. 573.

ODE for the NEW-YEAR, Jan. 1, 1776.
By William Whitehead, Esq; Poet Laureat.

ON the white rocks which guard her coast,
Observant of the parting day,
Whose orb was half in ocean lost,
     Reclin’d BRITANNIA lay.
            Wide o’er the wat’ry waste

            A pensive look she cast:
     And scarce could check the rising sigh,
And scarce could stop the tear, which trembled in her eye.
     “Sheathe, sheathe the sword which thirsts for blood,
     (She cried) deceiv’d, mistaken men!

Nor let your parent, o’er the flood,
     Send forth her voice in vain!
            Alas, no tyrant she,
            She courts you to be free:
     Submissive hear her soft command,

Nor force unwilling vengeance from a parent’s hands.”
     Hear her ye wife, to duty true,
            And teach the rest to feel.
     Nor let the madness of a few
            Distress the public weal!

     So shall the opening year assume,
     Time’s fairest child, a happier bloom;
     The white-wing’d hours shall lightly move,
            The Sun with added lustre shine;
     “To err is human.”—Let us prove

August 29, 1776. No. 574.

THE FAREWELL.
Written by a Soldier in the British Militia after the Siege
of Quebec was rais’d on the 6^th of May 1776.

FAREWELL!  all midnight Watchings, Pickets, Guards,
Of Martial merit oft the sole Rewards;
Adieu!  to all the Joys of a Blockade,
The Soul enliv’ning Drum—the fierce Cockade:—
And Oh!  farewell to Thee, my dear †BROWN-BESS

Tho’ we must part I ne’er can love you less
Than when encircled in my Arms I swore,
I never such a Mistress knew before,
Nor ever with more anxious Wishes prest,
ONE with such Passion to my panting Breast:

Yet still to my Embraces did you feel
As IRON cold—as obdurate as STEEL:
Untill acquainted with thy killing Charms,
I never knew what ’twas to fear Alarms;
The Rubs of Life with Patience I could bear,

And, unappal’d, all Heaven’s Artil’ry hear;
But now so very timid in my Heart,
Th’Explosion of a Rocket makes me start;
While ever and anon, a dismal Knell
Sounds in my Ears worse than a Passing-Bell:

By Heav’ns I swear I hate *THAT BELL so much
I ne’er will go to the CATHEDRAL CHURCH.
     And must we then those pleasant Walks forego?
O’er Fields of Ice and Pyramids of SNOW:
Where, undisturb’d by PHOEBUS scorching Ray,

We’ve slid along the smooth, sequester’d Way
Which from CAPE DIAMOND to the BLOCK-HOUSE leads
And where with Caution Prudence over treads;
For if the ΨTWIG-DIRECTED Path we shun
Great are the Dangers which we madly run;

Step to the Left—you’re over Ears in Snow—
Turn to the Right—plump in the Stream you go.
     When absent from me can you e’er forget,
How oft, when cold, when comfortless and wet,
When dripping from your Muzzle on my Feet,

Descended quick big Drops of Rain or Sleet,
Have I, (my own Distresses all forgot)
Hug’d you so snugly in my BLANKET-COAT,
That all the Rage of Sleet and Rain was foil’d,
And not a Lock of my DEAR BESS was spoil’d.

     Tho’ §OWEN’s uncontaminated PIECE
May claim a higher Sphere than my BROWN-BESS,
Yet no superior Merit can she boast,
For Virtue unassail’d can ne’er be lost:
Why then should MINE than HIS be more to blame,

Since, had he charg’d her home, she’d done the same.
Thus Prudes whose Passions Love could ne’er inflame,
To Chastity put in superior Claim,
To those who long by kind Persuasion prest,
Admit at last the Tyrant to their Breast;

And while a thousand Virtues are forgot,
One venial Fault is deem’d a heinous Blot:
Yet tho’ by Prudes such Slips are ne’er forgiv’n,
They’re always wink’d at by indulgent Heav’n.
     Thus VENUS (if what Poets write be fact)

Tho’ caught by VULCAN in the very Act
Of lawless Love, still brighter far appears,
Than all the VESTAL Planets in the Spheres:
So shall MY BESS (if ¶RUMSEY be but willing)
Superior shine in his RESPLENDENT £CEILING.

     Left CRITICS here should Cause for Censure seek,
COELUM and CEILING are the same—in Greek:
If that won’t do—if still they want a Prooff,
I’ll show them Heav’n in a terrestrial Rooff:
Where, spite of Nature, Art profuse affords,

MOONS made of MUSKETS—STARS compos’d of SWORDS;
Where, scarce in view, a glim’ring METEOR lurks
In ev’ry Angle made of HIGHLAND DIRKS;
Where PHOEBUS in full Glory beams so bright,
That, if a Candle burns, he shines all Night;

With more extensive Radiance darts his Rays
The more he’s shone on by the Taper’s Blaze;
Such is his Essence that his Light ne’er fails;—
A WOODEN SHIELD stuck full of bright BRASS NAILS;
BAY’NETS and PISTOLS form’d in close Array,

The whole encompass like the MILKY-WAY:
While round the blazon’d HORIZON appears
CLOUDS made of HELMETS, COMETS made of SPEARS.
     There shall MY BESS, when fever’d from my Arms,
Remain in Peace, secure from all Alarms,

And purg’d from ev’ry Stain, each rusty Spot,
Which in her WARFARE here she may have got,
Shall matchless shine, in burnish’d Brightness drest,
And Heav’n forbid I e’er disturb her Rest.

     † A Cant Word for a Musket.
     * The Great Bell of the Cathedral was the Signal for the Garrison to repair to their several Alarm Posts
     Ψ We were obliged to mark the Road by sticking Branches of Trees in the Snow.—
     § A Soldier in the same Company with the Author, who with several others, mistaking a Party of the Rebels for some of our own People, were made Prisoners on the 31^st December, and consequently had not an opportunity of discharging his musket.
     ¶ Store-Keeper.
     £ The Armoury.

August 29, 1776. No. 574.

VERSES by a young Gentleman late from Halifax, and 
Passenger in the Fleet from Jamaica that failed last June,
 under Convoy of the Antelope Man of War, commanded by 
William Judd, Esq;

               Dum Virtus, Honor, & Justitia florent
               Sic BRITANNIA——foelix BRITANNIA!

HAIL blest BRITANNIA!  happy Genius hail!
And smiling view thy Fleet in flowing Sail;
See glorious Commerce wasting to thy Shores,
And hear, unaw’d the British Thunder roars;
Full fifty Sail we stretch along the Main,

And add new Splendor to the liquid Scene;
When orient Blushes streak the rising Day
And Sol unseen steals forth a glimmering Ray,
Our Ships like whit’ning Towers rise by Degrees,
Show their fair Bosoms to the swelling Breeze,

Salute the Waves obedient to the Gale,
And skim the surface with full flowing Sail;
When silver Luna sheds her milder Light,
Our Canvas Domes diminish on the Sight,
Grow by Degrees so beautifully—less

The deep’ning Shade not Painting can express:
Tho’ all in Gloom—in turn we safely sleep
And ride victorious o’er the furrow’d Deep;
Make all submiss at Royal GEORGE’s Nod,
And smile away Rebellion’s little Rod.

Beneath thy Wings, O JUDD!  we safely steer,
Nor dread the Rebel’s puny Privateer.
To Vengeance sacred fall that impious Band,
Who strike the Parent with induteous Hand,
Wage War with her, O Heaven!  unhear’d of Strife!

To pierce the Breast that warm’d you into Life.
What tho’ thy Parent whitens into Years,
With Pearls of Conquest she can shake the Spheres;
The silver Snows those Honours of her Age,
Can awe Sedition—or domestic Rage;

Bend foreign Tyrants firmly to her Yoke,
And guard her Seas with floating Worlds of Oak.
Hail stern Britannia, Sovereign of the Whole,
Whose Fame Victoria spreads from Pole to Pole!
To thee alone the righteous Power is given

To rule beneath the spacious Dome of Heaven;
All Reptiles here below must own thy Sway,
And crown thee Mistress of the Land and Sea.