George deserts his Country and his GOD.
To see her Sons alert when North Commands,
And at his beck lift up Four Hundred Hands.
But whence this mighty influence? whence this Pow’r?
All Virtue’s delug’d in a golden Show’r
A Treas’ry Storm what Virtue can resist?
Ev’n George to drown her, dips his Civil List.
With Thirst hydropic all North’s Patriots drink,
And half a Million scarce will make’ em sink.
From craving more no Decency restrains,
At once they Poison and exhaust our Veins.
Let those, who feel the Civil List decrease,
Call on Mountstewart to restore his Fleece.
Father and Son are equally a Curse:
One dupes the Sov’reign, and one drains the Purse.
In Baubles and douceurs what Treasures fly?
How are the People plunder’d to supply!
Elegance lavish’d on a SCOT is vain,
A Hovel might content an Embryo Thane.
His Ancestors (this Truth is Wormwood now,)
Whose Hut contain’d their Wife, their Bairns, and Cow,
Thought e’er their Union taught their Pride to feel,
A Pounde in Siller was a muckle deale.
But since Scots felt the Blessings of that Law,
Which laid their Thanes on Down instead of Straw,
Bless’d them with Commerce, Arts, and all their Fruits,
And bade them herd no longer with their Brutes;
By Culture humaniz’d their Savage mind,
And plac’d them on a footing with Mankind;
Their haughty Sons who else had fed on Grass,
[print edition page 160]
Or filch’d for hunger, Thistles from their Ass,
Shiv’ring on Mountains desolate and cold,
Strangers alike to luxury and Gold,
Forgetting, like their Sires, Want’s bitter Sting,
Disdain the *Palace of an English King;
Demand supurb additions, vast expence,
To fit it for a Lordlings Residence.
O! Shame! where art thou fled!—ye Britons, rise!
Is it for Bute’s pround Race you grant Supplies?
With just Resentment bid Mountstewart fly,
And feed his Pride beneath his Father’s Sky;
There pinch on Rocks where barren Nature sleeps;
Yes—scourge him back to his paternal †Nieps.
Weak Sov’reigns, thus their artful Minions bless;
Ask what they dare their constant answer’s YES.
When injur’d Subjects with Petitions go,
The Sov’reign, low’ring, looks an haughty NO.
Yet if his Kingship wants a fresh Supply,
Below—aye, aye,—above, Contents the cry.
Petitioners with Rebels are involv’d;
Let Bute but hint—the Parliaments dissolv’d.
This influence ‡BECKFORD labour’d to resist?
Corruption, was maintain’d, and HE dismiss’d.
Cities Petition, yet their Plague endures;
But Virtue’s rage ||quick Dissolution cures.
[print edition page 161]
Say (for you know, my Lord,) the Cause of this,
You know who Counsels and who Acts amiss.
Disguise no Truth by Specious, trite harangue;
But say, at once your Parliament’s a Gang.
If Truth’s a Crime, and George’s frown you dread,
Say in a Whisper who is at their Head?
That Question’s home—your Lordship’s silent still—
l’ll answer it myself then—frown who will.
In ancient Days when simple Monarchs saw
No better means by reigning than by law,
When sages counsell’d with an honest Heart,
And Kings religiously perform’d their part;
E’er Standing Armies were a standing Curse,
Subjects were Children, and their King a Nurse;
No Suitor unredress’d then left the Throne;
The Nurse’s Interest and the Child’s were one.
The three Estates then us’d to coalesce,
With no Intention but to save and bless.
Now Kings, Lords and Commons, faithfully agree,
Like a Banditti, in Confed’racy.
Combin’d to plunge a Nation in distress,
To double Grievances without redress.
In vain to GEORGE the suppliant Knee is bent;
He enjoins silence, suffering, and content*.
With sullen gloom he arm’s his sulky brow,
And tell us Slav’ry is our CHARTER now.
ASTONISH’D at his City’s daring cries,
He tells ’em Kings and Parliaments are wise.
Tells
