The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 1 (of 3)

Picture IX

A Sailor's Hut, near the ShoreThomas and SusanThomasI wish I was over the water again!'Tis a pity we cannot agree;When I try to be merry 'tis labour in vain,You always are scolding at me;Then what shall I doWith this termagant Sue;Tho' I hug her and squeeze herI never can please her —Was there ever a devil like you!SusanIf I was a maid as I now am a wifeWith a sot and a brat to maintain,I think it should be the first care of my life,To shun such a drunkard again:Not one of the crewIs so hated by Sue;Though they always are bawling,And pulling and hauling —Not one is a puppy like you.54ThomasDear Susan, I'm sorry that you should complain:There is nothing indeed to be done;If a war should break out, not a sailor in SpainWould sooner be found at his gun:Arriving from seaI would kneel on one knee,And the plunder presentingTo Susan relenting —Who then would be honour'd like me!SusanTo-day as I came by the sign of the ship,A mighty fine captain was there,He was asking for sailors to take a small trip,But I cannot remember well where:He was hearty and free,And if you can agreeTo leave me, dear honey,To bring me some money! —How happy – indeed – I shall be!ThomasThe man that you saw not a sailor can get,'Tis a captain Columbus, they say;To fit out a ship he is running in debt,And our wages he never will pay:Yes, yes, it is he,And, Sue, do ye see,On a wild undertakingHis heart he is breaking —The devil may take him for me!

Picture X

Bernardo, a Spanish Friar, in his canonicalsDid not our holy book most clearly sayThis earth is built upon a pillar'd base;And did not Reason add convincing proofsThat this huge world is one continued plainExtending onward to immensity,Bounding with oceans these abodes of men,I should suppose this dreamer had some hopes,Some prospects built on probability.What says our lord the pope – he cannot err —He says, our world is not orbicular,And has rewarded some with chains and deathWho dar'd defend such wicked heresies.But we are turning heretics indeed! —A foreigner, an idiot, an impostor,An infidel (since he dares contradictWhat our most holy order holds for truth)Is pouring poison in the royal ear;Telling him tales of islands in the moon,Leading the nation into dangerous errors,Slighting instruction from our brotherhood! —O Jesu! Jesu! what an age is this!

Picture XI

Orosio, a Mathematician, with his scales and compassesThis persevering man succeeds at last!The last gazette has publish'd to the worldThat Ferdinand and Isabella grantThree well rigg'd ships to Christopher Columbus;And have bestow'd the noble titles tooOf Admiral and Vice-Roy – great indeed! —Who will not now project, and scrawl on paper —Pretenders now shall be advanc'd to honour;And every pedant that can frame a problem,And every lad that can draw parallelsOr measure the subtension of an angle,Shall now have ships to make discoveries.This simple man would sail he knows not where;Building on fables, schemes of certainty; —Visions of Plato, mix'd with idle talesOf later date, intoxicate his brain:Let him advance beyond a certain pointIn his fantastic voyage, and I foretellHe never can return: ay, let him go! —There is a line towards the setting sunDrawn on an ocean of tremendous depth,(Where nature plac'd the limits of the day)Haunted by dragons, fond of solitude,Red serpents, fiery forms, and yelling hags,Fit company for mad adventurers. —There, when the sun descends, 'tis horror all;His angry globe through vast abysses glidingBurns in the briny bosom of the deepMaking a havoc so detestable,And causing such a wasteful ebullitionThat never island green, or continentCould find foundation, there to grow upon.

Picture XII

Columbus and a PilotColumbusTo take on board the sweepings of a jailIs inexpedient in a voyage like mine,That will require most patient fortitude,Strict vigilance and staid sobriety,Contempt of death on cool reflection founded,A sense of honour, motives of ambition,And every sentiment that sways the brave. —Princes should join me now! – not those I meanWho lurk in courts, or revel in the shadeOf painted ceilings: – those I mean, more worthy,Whose daring aims and persevering souls,Soaring beyond the sordid views of fortune,Bespeak the lineage of true royalty.PilotA fleet arrived last month at CarthageneFrom Smyrna, Cyprus, and the neighbouring isles:Their crews, releas'd from long fatigues at sea,Have spent their earnings in festivity,And hunger tells them they must out again.Yet nothing instantly presents itselfExcept your new and noble expedition:The fleet must undergo immense repairs,And numbers will be unemploy'd awhile:I'll take them in the hour of dissipation(Before reflection has made cowards of them,Suggesting questions of impertinence)When desperate plans are most acceptable,Impossibilities are possible,And all the spring and vigour of the mindIs strain'd to madness and audacity:If you approve my scheme, our ninety men(The number you pronounce to be sufficient)Shall all be enter'd in a week, at most.ColumbusGo, pilot, go – and every motive urgeThat may put life into this expedition.Early in August we must weigh our anchors.Time wears apace – bring none but willing men,So shall our orders be the better borne,The people less inclin'd to mutiny.

Picture XIII

Discontents at SeaAntonioDreadful is death in his most gentle forms!More horrid still on this mad element,So far remote from land – from friends remote!So many thousand leagues already sail'dIn quest of visions! – what remains to usBut perishing in these moist solitudes;Where many a day our corpses on the seaShall float unwept, unpitied, unentomb'd!O fate most terrible! – undone Antonio!Why didst thou listen to a madman's dreams,Pregnant with mischief – why not, comrades, rise! —See, Nature's self prepares to leave us here;The needle, once so faithful to the pole,Now quits his object and bewilders us;Steering at random, just as chance directs —O fate most terrible! – undone Antonio! —HernandoBorne to creation's utmost verge, I sawNew stars ascending, never view'd before!Low sinks the bear! – O land, my native land,Clear springs and shady groves! why did I changeYour aspect fair for these infernal wastes,Peopled by monsters of another kind;Ah me! design'd not for the view of man!ColumbusCease, dastards, cease; and be inform'd that manIs nature's lord, and wields her to his will;If her most noble works obey our aims,How much more so ought worthless scum, like you,Whose whole existence is a morning dream,Whose life is sunshine on a wintry day,Who shake at shadows, struck with palsied fear:Measuring the limit of your lives by distance.AntonioColumbus, hear! when with the land we partedYou thirty days agreed to plough the main,Directing westward. – Thirty have elaps'd,And thirty more have now begun their round,No land appearing yet, nor trace of land,But distant fogs that mimic lofty isles,Painting gay landscapes on the vapourish air,Inhabited by fiends that mean our ruin —You persevere, and have no mercy on us —Then perish by yourself – we must return —And know, our firm resolve is fix'd for Spain;In this resolve we are unanimous.Juan de Villa-Real to Columbus(A Billet)"I heard them over night a plot contriving"Of fatal purpose – have a care, Columbus! —"They have resolv'd, as on the deck you stand,"Aiding the vigils of the midnight hour,"To plunge you headlong in the roaring deep,"And slaughter such as favour your design"Still to pursue this western continent."Columbus, solusWhy, nature, hast thou treated those so ill,Whose souls, capacious of immense designs,Leave ease and quiet for a nation's glory,Thus to subject them to these little things,Insects, by heaven's decree in shapes of men!But so it is, and so we must submit,Bending to thee, the heaven's great chancellor!But must I fail! – and by timidity!Must thou to thy green waves receive me, Neptune,Or must I basely with my ships return,Nothing accomplish'd! – not one pearl discover'd,One bit of gold to make our queen a bracelet,One diamond for the crown of Ferdinand!How will their triumph be confirm'd, who saidThat I was mad! – Must I then change my course,And quit the country that would strait appear,If one week longer we pursued the sun! —The witch's glass was not delusion, sure! —All this, and more, she told me to expect! —55(To the crew)"Assemble, friends; attend to what I say:"Signs unequivocal, at length, declare"That some great continent approaches us:"The sea no longer glooms unmeasur'd depths,56"The setting sun discovers clouds that owe"Their origin to fens and woodland wastes,"Not such as breed on ocean's salt domain: —"Vast flocks of birds attend us on our way,"These all have haunts amidst the watry void."Sweet scenes of ease, and sylvan solitude,"And springs, and streams that we shall share with them."Now, hear my most importunate request:"I call you all my friends; you are my equals,"Men of true worth and native dignity,"Whose spirits are too mighty to return"Most meanly home, when nothing is accomplish'd —"Consent to sail our wonted course with me"But one week longer, and if that be spent,"And nought appear to recompence our toil,"Then change our course and homeward haste away —"Nay, homeward not! – for that would be too base —"But to some negro coast,57 where we may hide,"And never think of Ferdinand again."HernandoOne week! – too much – it shall not be, Columbus!Already are we on the verge of ruin,Warm'd by the sunshine of another sphere,Fann'd by the breezes of the burning zone,Launch'd out upon the world's extremities! —Who knows where one week more may carry us?AntonioNay, talk not to the traitor! – base Columbus,To thee our ruin and our deaths we owe!Away, away! – friends! – men at liberty,Now free to act as best befits our case,Appoint another pilot to the helm,And Andalusia be our port again!ColumbusFriends, is it thus you treat your admiral,Who bears the honours of great Ferdinand,The royal standard, and the arms of Spain!Three days allow me – and I'll show new worlds.HernandoThree days! – one day will pass too tediously —But in the name of all our crew, Columbus,Whose speaker and controuler I am own'd;Since thou indeed art a most gallant man,Three days we grant – but ask us not again!

Picture XIV

Columbus at Cat IslandColumbus, solusHail, beauteous land! the first that greets mine eyeSince, bold, we left the cloud capp'd Teneriffe,The world's last limit long suppos'd by men. —Tir'd with dull prospects of the watry wasteAnd midnight dangers that around us grew,Faint hearts and feeble hands and traitors vile,Thee, Holy Saviour, on this foreign landWe still adore, and name this coast from thee![A]In these green groves who would not wish to stay,Where guardian nature holds her quiet reign,Where beardless men speak other languages,Unknown to us, ourselves unknown to them.

[A] He called the island San Salvador (Holy Saviour). It lies about ninety miles S.E. from Providence; is one of the Bahama cluster, and to the eastward of the Grand Bank. —Freneau's note.

AntonioIn tracing o'er the isle no gold I find —Nought else but barren trees and craggy rocksWhere screaming sea-fowl mix their odious loves,And fields of burning marle, where devils playAnd men with copper skins talk barbarously; —What merit has our chief in sailing hither,Discovering countries of no real worth!Spain has enough of barren sands, no doubt,And savages in crowds are found at home; —Why then surmount the world's circumferenceMerely to stock us with this Indian breed?HernandoSoft! – or Columbus will detect your murmuring —This new found isle has re-instated himIn all our favours – see you yonder sands? —Why, if you see them, swear that they are gold,And gold like this shall be our homeward freight,Gladding the heart of Ferdinand the great,Who, when he sees it, shall say smilingly,"Well done, advent'rous fellows, you have brought"The treasure we expected and deserv'd!" —Hold! – I am wrong – there goes a savage manWith gold suspended from his ragged ears:I'll brain the monster for the sake of gold;There, savage, try the power of Spanish steel —'Tis of Toledo[B]– true and trusty stuff!He falls! he falls! the gold, the gold is mine!First acquisition in this golden isle! —

[B] The best steel-blades in Spain are manufactured at Toledo and Bilboa. —Freneau's note.

Columbus, solusSweet sylvan scenes of innocence and ease,How calm and joyous pass the seasons here!No splendid towns or spiry turrets rise,No lordly palaces – no tyrant kingsEnact hard laws to crush fair freedom here;No gloomy jails to shut up wretched men;All, all are free! – here God and nature reign;Their works unsullied by the hands of men. —Ha! what is this – a murder'd wretch I see,58His blood yet warm – O hapless islander,Who could have thus so basely mangled thee,Who never offer'd insult to our shore —Was it for those poor trinkets in your earsWhich by the custom of your tribe you wore, —Now seiz'd away – and which would not have weigh'dOne poor piastre!Is this the fruit of my discovery!If the first scene is murder, what shall followBut havock, slaughter, chains and devastationIn every dress and form of cruelty!O injur'd Nature, whelm me in the deep,And let not Europe hope for my return,Or guess at worlds upon whose threshold nowSo black a deed has just been perpetrated! —We must away – enjoy your woods in peace,Poor, wretched, injur'd, harmless islanders; —On Hayti's[C] isle you say vast stores are foundOf this destructive gold – which without murderPerhaps, we may possess! – away, away!And southward, pilots, seek another isle,Fertile they say, and of immense extent:There we may fortune find without a crime.

[C] This island is now called Hispaniola, but is of late recovering its ancient name. —Freneau's note.

Picture XV

Columbus in a Tempest, on his return to SpainThe storm hangs low; the angry lightning glaresAnd menaces destruction to our masts;The Corposant[A] is busy on the decks,The soul, perhaps, of some lost admiralTaking his walks about most leisurely,Foreboding we shall be with him to-night:See, now he mounts the shrouds – as he ascendsThe gale grows bolder! – all is violence!Seas, mounting from the bottom of their depths,Hang o'er our heads with all their horrid curlsThreatening perdition to our feeble barques,Which three hours longer cannot bear their fury,Such heavy strokes already shatter them;Who can endure such dreadful company! —Then, must we die with our discovery!Must all my labours, all my pains, be lost,And my new world in old oblivion sleep? —My name forgot, or if it be remember'd,Only to have it said, "He was a madman"Who perish'd as he ought – deservedly —"In seeking what was never to be found!" —Let's obviate what we can this horrid sentence,And, lost ourselves, perhaps, preserve our name.'Tis easy to contrive this painted casket,(Caulk'd, pitch'd, secur'd with canvas round and round)That it may float for months upon the main,Bearing the freight within secure and dry:In this will I an abstract of our voyage,And islands found, in little space enclose:The western winds in time may bear it homeTo Europe's coasts: or some wide wandering shipBy accident may meet it toss'd about,Charg'd with the story of another world.

[A] A vapour common at sea in bad weather, something larger and rather paler than the light of a candle; which, seeming to rise out of the sea, first moves about the decks, and then ascends or descends the rigging in proportion to the increase or decrease of the storm. Superstition formerly imagined them to be the souls of drowned men. —Freneau's note.

Picture XVI

Columbus visits the Court at BarcelonaFerdinandLet him be honour'd like a God, who bringsTidings of islands at the ocean's end!In royal robes let him be straight attir'd.And seated next ourselves, the noblest peer.IsabellaThe merit of this gallant deed is mine:Had not my jewels furnish'd out the fleetStill had this world been latent in the main. —Since on this project every man look'd cold,A woman, as his patroness, shall shine;And through the world the story shall be told,A woman gave new continents to Spain.ColumbusA world, great prince, bright queen and royal lady,Discover'd now, has well repaid our toils;We to your bounty owe all that we are;Men of renown and to be fam'd in story.Islands of vast extent we have discover'dWith gold abounding: see a sample hereOf those most precious metals we admire;And Indian men, natives of other climes,Whom we have brought to do you princely homage,Owning they hold their diadems from you.FerdinandTo fifteen sail your charge shall be augmented:Hasten to Palos, and prepare againTo sail in quest of this fine golden country,The Ophir, never known to Solomon;Which shall be held the brightest gem we have,The richest diamond in the crown of Spain.

Picture XVII

Columbus in Chains[A]

[A] During his third voyage, while in San Domingo, such unjust representations were made of his conduct to the Court of Spain, that a new admiral, Bovadilla, was appointed to supersede him, who sent Columbus home in irons. —Freneau's note.

Are these the honours they reserve for me,Chains for the man that gave new worlds to Spain!Rest here, my swelling heart! – O kings, O queens,Patrons of monsters, and their progeny,Authors of wrong, and slaves to fortune merely!Why was I seated by my prince's side,Honour'd, caress'd like some first peer of Spain?Was it that I might fall most suddenlyFrom honour's summit to the sink of scandal!'Tis done, 'tis done! – what madness is ambition!What is there in that little breath of men,Which they call Fame, that should induce the braveTo forfeit ease and that domestic blissWhich is the lot of happy ignorance,Less glorious aims, and dull humility? —Whoe'er thou art that shalt aspire to honour,And on the strength and vigour of the mindVainly depending, court a monarch's favour,Pointing the way to vast extended empire;First count your pay to be ingratitude,Then chains and prisons, and disgrace like mine!Each wretched pilot now shall spread his sails,And treading in my footsteps, hail new worlds,Which, but for me, had still been empty visions.

Picture XVIII

Columbus at Valladolid[A]

[A] After he found himself in disgrace with the Court of Spain, he retired to Vallodolid, a town of Old Castile, where he died, it is said, more of a broken heart than any other disease, on the 20th of May, 1506. —Freneau's note.

1How sweet is sleep, when gain'd by length of toil!No dreams disturb the slumbers of the dead —To snatch existence from this scanty soil,Were these the hopes deceitful fancy bred;And were her painted pageants nothing moreThan this life's phantoms by delusion led?2The winds blow high: one other world remains;Once more without a guide I find the way;In the dark tomb to slumber with my chains —Prais'd by no poet on my funeral day,Nor even allow'd one dearly purchas'd claim —My new found world not honour'd with my name.3Yet, in this joyless gloom while I repose,Some comfort will attend my pensive shade,When memory paints, and golden fancy showsMy toils rewarded, and my woes repaid;When empires rise where lonely forests grew,Where Freedom shall her generous plans pursue.4To shadowy forms, and ghosts and sleepy things,Columbus, now with dauntless heart repair;You liv'd to find new worlds for thankless kings,Write this upon my tomb – yes – tell it there —Tell of those chains that sullied all my glory —Not mine, but their's – ah, tell the shameful story.

THE EXPEDITION OF TIMOTHY TAURUS, ASTROLOGER

To the Falls of Passaick River, in New Jersey59

Written soon after an excursion to the village at that place in August,1775, under the character of Timothy Taurus, a studentin astrology; and formerly printed in New-York

Characters of the Poem

Timothy Taurus, Astrologer, in love with Tryphena.

Slyboots, a Quaker, and his two Daughters.

Dullman, a City Broker.

Deacon Samuel.

Brigadier-General Nimrod.

Lawyer Ludwick.

Parson Pedro.

Doctor Sangrado.

Saunders, a Horse Jockey.

Gubbin, a Tavern-keeper.

Scalpella Gubbin, his Wife.

Mithollan, a Farmer.

My morning of life is beclouded with care!I will go to Passaick, I say and I swear —To the falls of Passaick, that elegant scene,Where all is so pretty, and all is so green —That river Passaick! – celestial indeed!That river of rivers, no rivers exceed. —Now why, I would ask, should I puzzle my brainThe nature of stars, or their use to explain —To trace the effects they may have on our earth,How govern our actions, or rule at our birth?Five years have I been at these studies, and scannedAll the books on the subject that sophists have planned!I am sorry to say (yet it ought to be said)The stars have not sent me one rye loaf of bread!Not a shilling to purchase a glass of good beer, —By my soul, it's enough to make ministers swear.Tryphena may argue, and say what she will,I am sure all my fortune is going down hill:Dear girl! if you wait 'till the planets are for usYour name will scarce alter to Tryphena Taurus.Tryphena! I love you – have courted you long —But find all my labours will end in a song! —"Will you play at all-fours?" – she said, very jolly; —I answered, The play at all-fours is all folly!"Will you play, then, at whist?" – she obligingly said; —I answered, the game is gone out of my head —Indeed, I am weary – I feel rather sick,So, I leave you, Tryphena, to win the odd trick. —There's a music some talk of, that's play'd by the spheres: —I wish him all luck who this harmony hears;And the people who hear it, I hope they may findIt is not a music that fills them with wind. —There's Saturn, and Venus, and Jove, and the rest:Their music to me is not quite of the best. —These orbs of the stars, and that globe of the moonTo me, I am certain, all play a wrong tune.Not a creature that plods in, or ploughs up the dirt,But from the mean clod gets a better support:Then farewell to Mars, and the rest of the gang,And the comets – I tell them they all may go hang;I mean, if they only with music will treat,It is not to me the best cooked of all meat.They may go where they will, and return when they please, —And I hope they'll remember to pay up my fees —So I leave them awhile, to be cheerful below,And away to Passaick most merrily go!The month, it was August, and meltingly warm,Not a cloud in the sky nor the sign of a storm;So I jumped in the stage, with the freight of the fair,And in less than a day at Passaick we were. —Well, arrived at the Falls, I procured me a bedIn a box of a house – you might call it a shed;The best of the taverns were all pre-engaged,So I barely was lodged, or rather encaged;Yet, cage as it was, I enjoyed a regaleOf victuals three times every day, without fail:There was poultry, and pyes, and a dozen things moreThat the damnable college had never in store:I feasted, and lived on such fat of the placeThat the college would not have remembered my face —So long had I fed on their trash algebraic,Indeed, it was time I went to Passaick! —The rocks were amazing, and such was the height,They struck me at once with surprize and delight.The waters rushed down with a terrible roar —What a pleasure it was to be lounging on shore!They now were as clear as old Helicon's stream,Or as clear as the clearest in poetry's dream. —These falls were stupendous, the fountains so clear,That another Narcissus might see himself here,Nor only Narcissus – some ill-featured facesFrom the springs were reflected – not made up of graces.But now I must tell you – what people were met:They were, on my conscience, a wonderful sett;Some came for their health, and some came for their pleasure,And to steal from the city a fortnight of leisure;Some came for a day, and yet more for a week,Some came from the college, tormented with Greek,To continue as long as their means would afford,That is, while the taverns would trust them their board:(Of this last mentioned class, I confess I was one,For why should I fib when the mischief is done?)This age may decay, and another may rise,Before it is fully revealed to our eyes,That Latin, and Hebrew, Chaldaic, and Greek,To the shades of oblivion must certainly sneak;Too much of our time is employed on such trashWhen we ought to be taught to accumulate cash.Supposing I knew them as pat as my prayers(And to know them completely would cost me twelve years)Supposing, I say, I had Virgil by rote,And could talk with old Homer – 'tis not worth a groat;If with Rabbi Bensalem I knew how to chat,Where lies the advantage? – and what of all that?Were this cart load of learning the whole that I knew,I could sooner get forward by mending a shoe:I could sooner grow rich by the axe or the spade,Or thrive by the meanest mechanical trade,The tinker himself would be richer than I,For the tinker has something that people must buy,While such as have little but Latin to vend,On a shadow may truly be said to depend;Old words, and old phrases that nothing bestow,And the owners discarded ten ages ago. —Here were people on people – I hardly know who —There was Mammon the merchant, and Japhet the Jew:There was Slyboots the Quaker, whose coat had no flaps,With two of his Lambkins, as plain in their caps.In silks of the richest I saw them array,But nothing was cut in our mode of the day,They hung to old habits as firm as to rocks,And are just what they were in the days of George Fox.They talked in a style that was wholly their own;They shunned the vain world, and were mostly alone,One talked in the Nay, and one talked in the Yea,And of light in their lanthorns that no one could see:They hated the crowd, and they hated the play,And hoped the vain actors would soon run away; —No follies like that would the preachers allow;And Tabitha said thee, and Rebecca said thou.Here was Dullman, the broker, who looked as demureAs if a false key had unlocked the shop door:He seemed to enjoy not a moment of rest,So unhappy to be – far away from his chest.He was all on the fidgets to be with his gold:Both honour and conscience he bartered, or sold —The devil himself – excuse me, I pray —Old Satan – oh no – take it some other way —The God of this world had him fast by a chain,And there let us leave him – and let him remain. —Here was Samuel, the Deacon, who read a large book,Though few but himself on its pages would look;Would you know what it was? – an abridgement of Flavell,[A]With Bunyan's whole war between soul and the devil; —It seemed very old, and the worse for the wear,And might last the next century, handled with care;But if fashions and folly should not have a fall,I presume it will hardly be handled at all. —Here was Nimrod the soldier – he wore a long sword,And, of course, all the ladies his courage adored;Two fringed epaulettes on his shoulders displayed,Discovered the rank of this son of the blade."O la!" cried Miss Kitty, "how bold he must be!Papa! we must beg him to join us at tea!How much like a hero he looketh – good me!Full many a battle, no doubt, he has stood,And waded shoe deep through a mill pond of mud!What heads have been sliced from the place they possessedBy the sword at his side! – all, I hope, for the best!"Then the soldier went out, to refresh at the inn —Perhaps he did not – if he did it's no sin —He made his congee, and he bowed to us all,And said he was going to Liberty Hall:'Tis certain he went, but certainly whereI cannot inform, and the devil may care.But now to proceed, in describing in rhymeThe folks that came hither to pass away time:There were more that had heads rather shallow than strong,And more than had money to bear them out long.In short, there were many more ladies than gents,And the latter complained of the heavy expense!And some I could see, with their splendour and show,That their credit was bad, and their pockets were low;Many females were gadding, I saw with concern,Who had better been knitting, or weaving their yarn.And many went into Passaick to laveWhose hides were, indeed, a disgrace to the wave;Who should have been home at their houses and farms,Not here to be dabbling, to shew us their charms:It would have been better to wash their own wallsThan here – to come here, to be washed in the falls.A judge of the court (in the law a mere goose)Here wasted his time with a lawyer let loose.Their books were thrown by – so I begged of the fatesThat the falls of Passaick might fall on their pates.This lawyer was Ludwick, who scarce had a suit,And for once in his life was disposed to be mute,But was mostly engaged in some crazy dispute:A cause against Smyth[B] he could never defend,As well might the Old One with Michael contend:The road was before him, the country was spacious,And he knew an old fellow called fieri facias: —I saw him demurr, when they asked him to pay —With a noli-pros-equi he scampered away. —Though his head was profusely be-plaistered with meal,One sorrowful secret it could not conceal,That he drew his first breath when a two penny starPresided, and governed this son of the bar.Here was Pedro, the parson, who looked full as graveAs it he had lodged in Trophonius's cave.He talked of his wine, and he talked of his beer,And he talked of his texts, that were not very clear;And many suspected he talked very queer. —He talked with Scalpella, the inn-holder's wife,Then dwelt on her beauties, and called her his life! —He ogled Scalpella! – and spake of her charms;And oh! how he wished to repose in her arms:He called her his deary, and talked of their loves;And left her at last – a pair of old gloves!I was sorry to see him deranged and perplextThat no one would ask him to handle a text: —All gaped when he spoke, and incessantly gazed,And thought him no witch, but a parson be-crazed.Fine work did he make of Millennium, I trow,Which he told us would come (tho' it comes very slow)When earth with the pious and just will aboundAnd Eden itself at Egg-Harbour be found:No musketoes to bite us, no rats to molest,And lawyers themselves rocked into something like rest.But most of us judged it was rather a whim,Or, at least, that the prospect was distant and dim.So I saw him pack up his polemical gown,To retreat while he could from the noise of the town.[C]He said there was something in Falls he admired,But of constantly hearing the roar – he was tired!With their damp exhalations his fancy was dimmed,He would come the next spring with his surplice new trimmed,Besides there were fogs in the morning (he said)That rose on the river and muddled his head! —Thus he quitted Passaick! – deserted her shore,And the taverns that knew him shall know him no more!One farmer Milhollan – I saw him come here,Almost at the busiest time in the year;His intent might be good, but I never could learnWho coaxed him away from his crib and his barn:Each morning he tippled three glasses of ginWith as many, at least, as three devils therein.He quarrelled with Jack, and he wrangled with Tom,'Till scarcely a negro but wished him at home;He talked over much of the badness of times,And read us a list of the governor's[D] crimes,From which it was clearly predicted, and plain,That his honour would hardly be chosen again.He fought with Tim Tearcoat, and cudgelled with Ben,And wrestled with Sampson – all quarrelsome men; —I was sorry to see him thus wasting his forceOn fellows who kicked with the heels of a horse.Tho' strong in my arms, and of strength to contestWith the youths of my age in the wars of the fist,I thought it was better to let them pursueThe quarrels they had, than to be one of their crew;I saw it was madness to join in the fray,So I left them to wrangle – each dog his own way.He spoke thrice an hour of his crop that had failed,And losses, he feared, that would get him enjailed;He mentioned his poultry, and mentioned his pigs,And railed at some Tories, converted to Whigs. —(Excuse me retailing so much in my rhymesOf the chatt of the day and the stuff of the times;'Tis thus in the acts of a play, we perceiveAll the parts are not cast to the wise, or the brave;Not all is discoursed by the famed or the fair,The demons of dullness have also their share;Statira in play-house has not all the chance,For hags are permitted to join in the dance:Not Catos, or Platos engross every play,For clowns and clod-hoppers must, too, have their day;Not the nobles of nature say all that is said,And monarchs are frequently left in the shade;There must be some nonsense, to step in between,There must be some fools to enliven the scene.)Here was Doctor Sangrado, with potion and pill,And his price was the same, to recover or kill.He waddled about, and was vext to the soulTo see so much health in this horrible hole;He seemed in a fret there was nobody sick,And enquired of the landlord, "What ails your son Dick?""What ails him? (said Gubbins) why nothing at all!""By my soul (said the quack) he's as white as the wall;I must give him a potion to keep down his gall!There is bile on his stomach – I clearly see that;This night he will vomit as black as my hat:Here's a puke and a purge – twelve doses of bark;Let him swallow them all – just an hour before dark!""O dear! (said the mother) the lad is quite well!" —Said the Doctor, "No, no! he must take calomel:It will put him to rights, as I hope to be saved!""Or rather (said Gubbins) you hope him engraved!"So, the Doctor walked off in a pitiful plight,And he lodged in a dog-house (they told me) that night.Here were wives, and young widows, and matrons, and maids,Who came for their health, or to stroll in the shades;Here were Nellies, and Nancies, and Hetties, by dozens,With their neighbours, and nephews, and nieces, and cousins —All these had come hither to see the famed Fall,And you, pretty Sally, the best of them all.Here was Saunders, the jockey, who rode a white horse,His last, it was said, and his only resource;And the landlord was careful to put us in mindThat hell and destruction were riding behind:He often had told him, "Do, Saunders, take care,This swilling of gin is a cursed affair:Indeed – and it puts a man off from his legs,And brings us at last to be pelted with eggs —The wit of your noddle should carry you through, —Break your bottle of rum – give the devil his due!Keep the reason about you that nature designed,And you have the respect and regard of mankind!"This steed of poor Saunders' was woefully lean,And he looked, as we thought, like the flying machine;And, in short, it appeared, by the looks of his hide,That the stables he came from were poorly supplied:A bundle of bones – and they whispered it round,That he came from the hole where the Mammoth was found.[E]They stuff'd him with hay, and they crammed him with oatsWhile Saunders was gaming and drinking with sots:(For the de'il in the shape of a bottle of rumDeceived him with visions of fortune to come;)His landlady had on the horse a sheep's-eye,So Saunders had plenty of whiskey and pye:He had gin of the best, and he treated all round,'Till care was dismissed and solicitude drowned,And a reckoning was brought him of more than three pound.As he had not a groat in his lank looking purse,The landlord made seizure of saddle and horse: —Scalpella, the hostess, cried, "Fly from this room,Or I'll sweep you away with my hickory broom!"Thus Saunders sneaked off in a sorrowful way,And the Falls were his fall – to be beggar next day. —The lady of ladies that governed the innWas a sharper indeed, and she kept such a din! —Scalpella! – and may I remember the name! —Could scratch like a tyger, or play a tight game.A bludgeon she constantly held in her hand,The sign of respect, and a sign of command:She could scream like a vulture, or wink like an owl;Not a dog in the street like Scalpella could howl. —She was a Scalpella! – I am yet on her books,But, oh! may I never encounter her looks! —I owe her five pounds – I am that in her debt,And my dues from the stars have not cleared it off yet.If she knew where I am! – I should fare very ill;Instead of some beer she would drench me with swill;I should curse and reflect on the hour I was born. —If she thought I had fixed on the pitch of Cape Horn,She would find me! – Scalpella! set down what I oweIn the page of bad debts – due to Scalpy and Co! —Her boarders she hated, and drove with a dash,And nothing about them she liked but their cash;Except they were Tories – ah, then she was kind —And said to their honours, "You are men to my mind!Sit down, my dear creatures – I hope you've not dined!" —She talked of the king, and she talked of the queen,And she talked of her floors – that were not very clean: —She talked of the parson, and spoke of the 'squire,She talked of her child that was singed in the fire —The Tories, poor beings, were wishing to kiss her – oh —If they had – all the stars would have fought against – Cicero.[F]She talked, and she talked – now angry, now civil,'Till the Tories themselves wished her gone to the devil.How I tremble to think of her tongue and her stick, —Tryphena, Tryphena! I've played the odd trick!Now the soldier re-entered – the ladies were struck:And "she that can win him will have the best luck!""La! father (said Kitty) observe the bold man!I will peep at his phyz from behind my new fan!What a lace on his beaver! – his buttons all shine!In the cock of a hat there is something divine!Since the days of Goliah, I'll venture to layThere never was one that could stand in his way:What a nose! – what an eye! – what a gallant address!If he's not a hero, then call me Black Bess!What a gaite – what a strut – how noble and free!I'm ravished! – I'm ruined! – good father! – good me!""Dear Kitty, (he answered) regard not his lace,The devil I see in the mould of his face:Cockades have been famous for crazing your sexSince Helen played truant, and left the poor Greeks;And while her good husband was sleeping, and snored,Eloped with Sir Knight from his bed, and his board. —Three things are above me, yea, four, I maintain,Have puzzled the cunningest heads to explain!The way of a snake on a rock – very sly —The way of an eagle, that travels the sky,The way of a ship in the midst of the sea,And the way of a soldier – with maidens like thee."

[A] An English divine of considerable note, who died about a century ago. —Freneau's note.