Many colonial South Carolinians were exposed to poetry not through individual
volumes or anthologies, but through the colony's leading newspaper. Based
in Charleston, this publication went through various owners and titles
(The Charlestown Gazette, The Royal Gazette, The Royal South-Carolina
Gazette, and The South Carolina Gazette and Country Journal to name a
few). Below is a sampling from the hundreds of (mostly anonymous) poems
that appeared in the newspaper's pages in the eighteenth century. Some
are obviously by local poets, others may have been reprinted from abroad.
All contributed to this state's early literary heritage.
Who dare affirm, my Pow’r is weak,
Whilst I instruct the Dumb to speak?
And, what’s confess’d a greater Deed,
Bestow new Life upon the Dead!
The Things, most valu’d here below,
To me, their Preservation owe.
Things past, with me, as present are;
And thousand-Fancies, that ne’er were.
Nay more, in my capacious Womb,
Are treasur’d up Events to come.
Futurity I penetrate,
And shew the dark Designs of Fate.
Thoughts never utter’d I can tell,
Imaginations can reveal.
Each Syllable I can repeat,
In all the Volumes ever writ.
Estates I give to whom I please,
Transferring that Man’s Land to this.
I’m conversant the Earth throughout,
From splendid Court to humble Cott.
I ratify the Leagues of Princes,
And Mine, their solemn Treaty’s Fence is.
My Birth no human Skill can trace,
But, that I’m not of heav’nly Race,
Is easily discern’d by this;
In me, both Truth and Erroro is;
And tho’, my Councel he, that takes,
Shall certainly avoid Mistakes;
Yet, whoso follows all I say;
Perplex’d in endless Doubts shall stray.
We are greatly obliged to the Fair Correspondent, who send us the above
lines; nor less for the Compliment, she was pleas’d to send with
it. But the Ladies may be assur’d, that whatever, we are favored
with, in their Hand-writing, may claim a Place in our Paper, without any
other Introduction.
April 15-22, 1732
Untitled by Ralpho Cobble
[This was a rebuttal to an earlier notice calling for education establishment
and reform in the area.]
LEARNING that Cobweb of the Brain,
Profane, erroneous, and vain,
A Trade of Knowledge, as replete
As others with Fraud and Cheat.
An Art t’ incumber Gift and Wit,
And renders both for nothing fit.
A Cheat that Scholars put upon
Other Men’s Reason and their own.
A Fort of Error to enforce
Absurdity and Ignorance.
That readers all the Avenues
To Truth, impervious and absolute:
By making plain things in Debate
By art perplexed and intricate
For nothing goes for Sense and Light.
That will not with old Rules jump write.
As if Rules were not in the Schools
Deriv’d from Truth, but Truth from Rules.
This pagan heathinish Invention
Is good for nothing but Contention
For as in Sword and Buckler Fight.
All Blows do on the Target light
So when Men argue the greatest part
O’ th’ Constest falls on terms of Art,
Until the fustian Stuff be spent
And they fall to th’ Argument.
March 20, 1749
“RHAPSODY on RUM.” by J. Dumbleton
Great Spirit hail!--Confusion’s angry Sire,
And like thy Parent Bacchus, born of Fire:
The Goal’s Decoy; the greedy Mercanht’s Lure;
Disease of Money, but Reflections Cure
We owe, great DRAM! the trembling Hand to thee,
The headstrong Purpose, and the feeble Knee;
The Loss of Honour; and the Cause of Wrong;
The Brain enchanted; and the falt’ring Tongue;
Whilst fancy flies before Thee unconfin’d,
Thou leasv’t disabled Prudence far behind.
In thy pursuit our fields are left forlorn,
Whilst giant Weeds oppress the pigmy Corn;
Thou throw’st a Mist before the Planters Eyes;
The plough grows idle, and the Harvest dies.
By Thee refresh’d no cruel Norths we fear;
‘Tis ever warm and calm when thou art near:
On the bare Earth for Thee expos’d we lie
And brave the Malice of a weeping Skie.
And seem like those that did of old repent;
We sit in ashes and our clothes are rent.
From theee a thousand flatt’ring Whims escape,
Like hasty Births, that never have perfect Shape.
Thine Ideots seem in gay Delusion fair,
But borne in Flame, they soon expire in Air.
O grand Deluder! such thy charming Art,
‘Twere good we ne’er should meet, or ne’er should part:
Ever abscond, or ever tend our Call;
Leave us our sense entire, or none at all.
December 16, 1756
“An ELEGY”
On the much lamented loss of Col. Hyrne’s Lady.
FAIR Carolina, now doth much lament:
One of her jewels is from busom rent
She cannot chuse but shew kind concern
For the loss of that good lady, madam Hyrne
For cruel death, that king of terrors great.
His coming, inevitable ‘ate
All must submit unto his fatal dart
And with it, he did pierce her tender heart
Her loving spouse her absence much doth mourn
For he can never look for her return
Her dear ideas, now must fill his arms
For she is fled with her delightful charms
Her tender mother, and good relations grieve
For such as loss, they never can retrieve
Her little ones, has their mother dear
That would have raised them in God’s love and fear
All her poor neighbors wants she did supply
In her conversation, most did edify
The loss is great to those that lived near
That can’t forbear, to shed a friendly tear
That doth doth seem all nature’s chiefest foe
But yet we hope, she has no found him so
God’s messenger hath caus’d her to remove
To join her essence with the bless’d above
No earthly joys, can ever come up to this
The full fruition of eternal bliss.
To endless ages, there for to remain
In the highest heav’ns where Christ himself doth reign.
May 17, 1761
"E P I G R A M." Z.Z.
THAIS condemns the gen’rous
Soul
Which feasts itself with Wine,
And railing at the sparkling Bowl,
Says, “Water shall be mine.”
In vain, alas! she wou’d deceive,
And such a Cheat impose;
Yet no one can her Tongue believe,
Who looks upon her Nose.
March 18, 1766
“The Address of Liberty to Parliament.”
by Republicae Amicus
Illustrious Great! fair Virtue’s steady friends!
Whom no false glare, should tempt to servile ends.
Will you, unmov’d see Liberty opprest,
Nor feel the lab’ring throes which rend her brest?
Rouse from inglorious lethargy, awake!
My rights! my sacred rights are now at stake.
Your honor bids you, and your duty draws
T’ assert my power, and maintain my cause.
Let active zeal let patriotick fire,
Your councils guide, and your debates inspire.
Preserve your children, save the publick weal;
And soon, ah! Soon the FATAL ACT repeal
Scarce had she spoke, When Barre’s noble soul
Rises superior to each base controul.
Aloud he cries; “can you thus tamely see,
“Whole colonies involved in misery?
“Oh! ‘tis the soul’s best attribute to feel
“The woes of others, and their wounds to heal.
“Behold a melancholy seene displayed,
“Of Rights usurped and Charters lightly weigh’d
“These their sole bulwark or infring’d or lost,
“Farewell to Freedom too, their happy boast.
“Freedom from the noblest blessing can know,
“Since from this source, all other blessing flow.
“For this the Romans spent their latest breath,
“This was their ruling passion, still in death.
“And will the American, as nobly fir’d
“Disclaim a virtue, which Rome’s sons inspired.
“Briton, American tis all the same,
“To Heaven-born LIBERTY each has claim.
“Their common interest no distiction knows,
“Each share alike or happiness or woes.
“The vassalage of one, must both inthral
“And universal ruin wait on all.”
Thus Barre spoke; the wise the brave, the great,
The event still lab’ring in the womb of fate.
Augeat imperium nofiri ducis, augeat annos.
June 9, 1767
“A Whimsical W I L L.” by T.
COSMOP.
SINCE Youth and Age must quit the Stage,
And, either soon or late,
By Death be hurl’d out of the World;
So stern the Will of Fate:
I, in the Prime of Health and Time,
Without Regret, Divide,
And frankly share, what I must spare,
As Reason designs to guide.
Imprimis. To the wrangling Crew
Of Catchpoles and Attornies,
I leave my Feet, light, quick and fleet,
To speed them on their Journies.
And, as I know their Fund’s so low,
I, to their other Talents,
Add Scruples three of Honesty,
Their dark Accounts to balance.
In this Bequest, above the rest,
I had been more profuse;
But that, ‘tis plain, one single Grain
Is more than ere they use.
To thirty Sots, I leave full Pots
Of Water mix’t with Gall;
and, what’s far worse, an empty Purse,
And Credit sunk withal.
To Coquets nice, this sage Advice
I leave to all their Clan,
To lay aside their empty Pride,
And marry when they can.
To formal Prudes, whom Love excludes,
Despair and rotten Teeth;
Wrinkles, grey Hairs, and all the Cares
Old Maids are pester’d with.
The Dastard’s Part, shall be my Heart,
My Fortitude, and Spirit;
And such as fret, and oft take Pet,
My Patience shall inherit.
The beauteous Fair, my Love shall share,
Who’s virtuous, true and loyal;
The rest I leave, Rakes to deceive,
And stand the old Maid’s Trial.
Such Tools of State, whom public Hate
Has wrapp’d in dark Disguise,
Who grasp at Pow’r, and Wealth devour,
To Justice I devise.
Each noisy Scold, who uncontroul’d
By Reason, can’t be civil,
But din Mankind, I leave confign’d
To Bedlam or the D – l .
August 4, 1767
Untitled, Anonymous
To The PRINTER.
Sir, PLEASE to insert the following in your next Paper, and you'll oblige
your constant
Female Readers.
WHAT Charms has the dull stupid sauntring Life of a Bachelor, above that
of a married Man? What are his Advantages? Where is the Joy of living
on the Earth, without having any one Place in it that he can call his
home? What Pleasure is there in a selfish Unconcern for all the World?
What Comfort in having non concerned or interested for him?
The dry, dull, drowsy Bachelor surveys
Alternate joyless Nights and lonesome Days;
No tender Transports wake his sullen Breast,
No soft Endearments lulls his Cares to rest;
Stupidly free from Nature’s tend’rest Ties,
Lost in his own sad self he lives and dies.
Not so the Man to whom indulgent Heaven,
That Tender Bosom-friend, a WIFE has given;
Him blest in her kind Arms no Fears dismay,
No secret Checks of Guilt his Joys allay;
No Husband wrong’d, no Virgin’s honor spoil’d,
No tender Parent weeps his ruin’d Child,
No bad Disease or false Embrace is here,
The Joys are safe, the Raptures are sincere.
Does Fortune smile? how grateful must it prove
To tread Life’s pleasing Round with the one you love?
Or does she frown with one whose soft’ning Art
Will sooth your Woes, or bear a willing Part?
Forgive us Gentleman, this start of Poetry; the Warmness of our Hearts,
occasioned the Elevation of our Stile: But if we have said nothing but
what is true, nothing but what is just and reasonable, we hope the Strikingness
of the Contrast, and the Strenght of the Sentiment, will cooperate together
to make you ashamed of yourselves; and as the first Fruits of your Repentance,
throw yourselves at our Feet, and with humble contrite Hearts confess
your past Follies, and joyfully embrace the forgiveness which tender Bosoms
will undoubtedly be disposed to favour you with.
June 28, 1768
On INGRATITUDE.
IN ev’rey country, ev’rey age, we find
Some kind of villainy no law can bind.
Murder with equal death her fine shall pay,
And low the rapid course of lust shall stay;
Theft shall expire, when justice lifts the scale,
Treason shall groan, and blasphemy look pale.
From crimes like these, whole multitudes abstain,
Or friends of virtue, or the slaves of gain.
But yet no law, divine or human, can
Restrain the treachery of man to man.
Here vile ingratitude unpunish’d sits,
Accepting benefits she still forgets;
There falshood, cover’d with a train of lies,
Would cheat an Argus with his hundred eyes.
Mischief still guarded with a thousand darts,
Plays in security her diff’rent parts:
And, lo! the main in whom those crimes unite,
Shews, beyond doubt, that justice wants her fight.
August 13 1770
Untitled, LENORA.
CURSED the man, who inverts nature’s laws,
Which God directed for his glorious cause,
And said be fruitful, multiply on earth,
Stifle not virtuous progeny in birth.
Oh! how does ROBERT SON of WILL discover,
By precedents, - of God nor man a lover.
A woman weak, attempts to plead the cause
Of virtue injured by such impious laws.
Say monster! whence you sprung, from whom you came,
You who, both God and nature would defame;
Shall woman be forgot, who gave you birth.
Oh! shriek for shame, unburied rot on earth!
Let celibatick notions with you die,
For God and nature vicious rules defy.
The Devil and you, like Proteus would mix,
And on no virtuous system e’er will fix.
Shall woman be forgot, and left alone?
When for man’s sake she sprung, bone of his bone;
The vows of celibacy spring from hell,
And demon like, make impious man rebel;
Such impious schemes no virtuous man will host,
Where Beelzebub presides, and gives the toast.
Shall we poor women, thus neglected lie,
Which nature points as charms to human eye?
Ask God who made thee; for what end ordain’d?
Read, read the scriptures, there you’ll find proclaim’d,
That God and nature’s works are still the same,
And you, so weak a man, scarce worth the name.
Poor woman! not admitted judgment’s seat;
Let me sit there but once, I would be great,
Assert my sex’s cause, yet speak the truth
Nor be too bold, but humble in my youth,
Decree him eunuch who hates progeny,
And no regard pays to posterity.
No friend to God and plastick nature’s laws,
Foe to our sex, and to his country’s cause,
Who scorns to help a living soul to birth,
And none of his to leave behind on earth
To praise his God, - to heaven dies a foe,
And like an empty bubble bursts below.
November 13, 1770
A COMPLIMENT, To Miss
C HASTE Flors be thou blest in Hymen's Bands,
H appier yet still to join with Virtue's Hands;
A M-'s softest Charms, your just Desert:
R ivet his Love, to your good tender Heart.
L ong may that lovely Chain hold fast on Earth,
O h none be broke! but add new Links by Birth;
T o leave behind you, Blessings yet unborn
T o praise your God, - your Memory to adorn,
E ver to praise, at Even and at Morn.
B lest be that House, where sylvan Shades Surround
R ebounding Joy, Peace, Plenty, in it found;
O f such I wish myself, such I wish you
U nto all those, who heav'nly Joys pursue
G od will in Time, I trust, give me and you.
H erein I venture those Acrostick Lines,
T o try divert you in these stupid Times:
O h may all perverse Obstinacy subside,
N ever be you unhappy, God your Guide.
March 17, 1772
The B E A U: A Character from real Life.
Mr. Crouch,
By giving the following a Place in your Paper, you will oblige one of
your constant Readers. -------
BEHOLD the spruce Beau, in his Holiday Cloaths,
Replete with his Compliments, full of his Bows;
No Passions disturb him, no Cares intervene,
Except the dear Passion, to keep his Cloaths clean.
This his chiefest Pursuit, his principal Care,
All others he leaves to the wide spreading Air.
Few Graces contribute to the forming his Mind;
His Humour but low, and his Wit’s all purloin’d.
A Set of shrewd Hints, Innuendoes, and Slanders,
A Heap of State Phrases, and double Entendres;
Some new-fashion’d Compliments ready at Hand,
To bully and bluster, with Oaths at command.
To Romances and Farces, much indebted he is,
For many pert Sayings, and smart Repartees.
His Knowledge just serves him to dress with an Air,
Look big, bounce and flatter, to jest and to swear.
Of Venus and Cupid, and Love’s goodly Train,
He talks with much Pleasure, for it gives him no Pain;
Self-love is his principal, only Desire,
And all his whole Study’s himself to admire.
As for Learning and Books, that teach Men to be wise,
He never once thinks of --- except to despise.
His Answer is this, when of Books you discourse:
‘ That Ma is but bad, and that they make him worse:
‘ That they teach him the Arts of Fraud and Deceit,
‘ And make him a Rogue in each Action compleat:
‘ They fill him with Care, with Trouble and Woes,
‘ And conjure up Means to destroy his Repose.
‘ That to live is quite easy, of Books there’s no Need;
‘ And that he’s most happy, who never learnt to read.’
Thus reasons he slightly of Matters sublime ---
Thus learns to despise what would make him divine.
What is Beauty and Dress, to the Graces we find
Concentrated and lodg’d in the well-tuter’d Mind?
The brightest Perfections may fade in an Hour,
But Wisdom will last when Beauty’s no more.
Time here finds a Foe, that, in spite of him, warms,
For nothing but Death can deprive her of Charms.
May 10, 1774
PICTURES of the PRESENT TIMES.
A Deluge of circulating Paper,
A low Ebb of real Money,
Waste dissipating Wealth,
Want driving Industry into Exile,
Wisdom in Fetters,
Virtue in Rags,
Presumption in Prosperity,
Prostitution in Triumph,
Justice protecting Villainy,
Religion masking Hypocrisy,
And
Power, supplied by Harpies, feeding
Cormorants with Spoil.
September 6, 1774
Untitled, anonymous
The following Lines were occasioned by the Sight of the AMERICAN
having TEA poured down her throat as represented in the MAY MAGAZINE.
CANST thou, Spectator, view this wicked Scene,
Yet not command thy pit’ous tears to stream?
Canst thou a Sister see so us’d by those--
(Another bursting to observe her Woes)
Who are always stud’ing to enslave thy land---
To make thyself their tennant at command:
And yet content thyself--and sit quite calm,
Without some Feeling--or the least Alarm?
And canst thou see another weeping so,
Yet not sincerly say---Oh! Scene of Woe!
Oh! now becasue her Virtue does refuse
Her Country’s Poison---they do her abuse.
But let not such that virtue now destroy,
For that alone can bring t’ our Country joy;
‘Tis such like her who may our Freedom save,
And such, alone, are loyal, virtuous, brave:
‘Tis such, my sisters, your good Brother’s love
And such a Spirirt we must now approve.
But this her usage does me inspire
The warmest flame--’tis sure Coeicst’al Fire;
To feel for Virtue, when oppressed by Vice
Must be divine--a heavenly Advice!
July 22, 1778
“The BIRDS the BEASTS and the BAT.” A FABLE.
Anonymous
A War broke out in former days,
(If all is true that AEsop says)
Between the Birds the haunt the grove,
And Beasts that wild in the forests rove,
Or Fowl that swim in waters clear,
Or Birds that mount aloft in air,
From ev’ry tribe vast numbers came
To fight for freedom or for fame:
The Beasts from dens and caverns deep,
From valleys low and mountains steep,
In dread array assembled flood.
And gnash their teeth and thirst for blood.
The Bat, half Bird, half Beast was there,
Nor for this or that would declare,
Waiting till conquest should decide,
Which was the strongest, fastest side,
Depending on his doubtful form
To screen him from the impending storm.
With pointed beaks and talons long
With horney spurs and pinions strong
The feather’d race at last ‘tis said,
In fierce assault such havoc made
That panic struck, their foes retreat
Amaz’d--and victory seemed compleat.
On which the Bat, with squeaking tone,
Cries, “Bravo Birds the days our own:
“ For now I’m proud to claim a place
“ Amongst your bold aspiring race;
“ With leather wings I claim the air,
“ And am a Bird though clothed in hair.”
But now the Beasts ashamed of flight,
With rallied forces renewed the fight.
With sharpened teeth, uplifted paws,
With threatning horns, and spreading claws,
Boldly advance--push on the fray,
And claim the honours of the day.
The Bat, now having to and fro,
Ob’served how things were like to go:
Concludes those best, who best can fight,
And thinks the strongest party right.
“ Push on (says he) ours is the day,
“ We’ll drive those rebel birds away
“ And reign supreme--for who but we
“ Of earth and air the Lords should be;
“ That I’m a beast I can make out
“ By reasons strong, beyond a doubt--
“ With ears and fur--’twould be absurd
“ To call a thing like me a BIRD
“ Each son and daughter of my house
“ Is stiled at least a flying mouse.”
Always uncertain is the fate
Of war and enterprises great,
Nor can the wisest heads forsee
Which side at last victors be.
The Beasts exulting, pushed too far.
Their late advantage in the war;
Sure of success insulting the foe,
Despite their strength and careless grow.
The birds not vanquished but dismayed,
Collect their force new power displayed,
Their Chief, the Eagle, leads them on,
And with fresh rage the war’s begun.
Now in their turn the Beasts must yield,
And to the victors, leave the field;
Rou’ed the fly, disperse, divide,
And in their native caverns hide.
Once more the Bat with courlty voice
Adress’d the Birds--”much I rejoice
“ In your success and come to claim
“ My share of conquest and of fame”
The Birds the faithless wretch depise--
Hence traitor, hence, the Eagle cries,
Nor dare as you, full vengeance fear,
Amongst our honour’d ranks appear,
Nor would the Beasts the exile own--
Avaunt hid they--mongrel begon.
Be lasting infamy his due
Who stands to neither party true.
Since then the Bat, in some old shed
Hides his dishonorable head,
Nor dares his leather wings display
From rising morn to setting day;
But when the gloomy shades of night
Screens his vile form from ev’ry sight,
In search of food he sallies out,
Despis’d, unnoticed flies about,
Then to his dreary cell returns,
And his just fate in silence mourns.
“ ’Mongst too many, like the Bats,
“ Incline to this side or to that,
“ As int’rest leads--or wait to see
“ Which party will the strongest be.
“ Let such old Aesop’s fable take,
“ And conscience the application make.
August 29, 1781
Untitled
[This poem appears among the usually prosaic notices of lost and
stolen property.]
STOL'N or stray’d on Thursday morning fast About the hour of six
or something past,
From Mr. Smith’s in Tradd-street, number eight,
A MARE that has a very pleasant gait;
Her colour grey, she canters very well,
But of the brand I nothing now can tell;
My memr’y tho’ is not so very frail,
But I can recollect a short switch tail;
Her mane cut close. I think they call it roach’d;
And thus, a fair description I have broach’d;
No faith, I’m wrong! I almost told a lie,
The mare is six and fifty inches high,
Whoever brings her safe to Accabee,
Shall then recieve a very handsome fee.
May 7, 1782
“An EPISTLE to CRYSAL from a REFUGEE LOTTERY TICKET.”
by A Refugee Lottery Ticket.
[Chrysal, a popular prose satire by Charles Johnstone, followed the adventures
of a coin as it passed from hand to hand .]
Mr. Robertson, If you think the enclosed worthy a place in your Paper,
you will bestow
one on it. --The intention should screen me
from the rage of a mere critic. --I confess to
have taken some liberties with your Devil,
but if you will make my peace with his diabolical
honor, and this is acceptable, fun may hear
again from Your's INCOG.
YOU Crysal, boast of birth divine,
Extracted from Peruvian mine;
Nurtur’d by Sol’s refugent ray,
By Jesuit brought to open day:
I only claim an humble birth,
Descended from our mother earth;
And eastern monarchs have no more,
In common with the meanest poor.
‘Tis true you ev’ry wish supply,
But touch you, and our wishes fly
Cloe has charms but then she’s poor,
One thousand adds ten thousand more
What charms are in a well-fill’d purse!
But empty ‘tis a real curse!
The ill-got plumb in sordid mind,
But forms a wish for that behind,
And still the more his chest is cramm’d
The deeper is the monster damn’d.
Thus tho’ life blessings flow of course
Of every ill you are the source;
Tho called divine, replete with evil,
And more our curse than quondam devil
Thus Crysal for your birth and fame,
Now give me leave to lay my claim,
A Lottery Ticket is my Name:
But how related I have been,
Produces but a guesswork scenes;
Tho’ well-read heralds for a fee
Wou’d soon produce a pedigree,
Long as Cadwaller’s from Wales,
And full of such amazing tales;
But as I have not intuition,
I must make use of supposition.
And first from piece of purest lawn;
To light and life I might be drawn;
Perhaps politely bred in France,
A canubrick ruffle I might dance.
Or, of the true Hibernian make,
Exported for the Ladies sake,
Supremely happy I might rest,
Confign’d to lodge on Cloe’s breast;
There touch her bosom, light as air,
And happy, cover all the fair!
Perhaps, Sir foolings hand I kist,
Or grac’d the Captain’s handsome wrist;
Then Sylvia’s neck I us’d to pat;
Or figur’d in his lac’d cravat,
In ample folds beneath his chin
More worth than all the works within:
There I attracted Mira’s eyes,
What magic in a neckcloth lies!
Perhaps I lay a holland sheet
Where Phillis did her lover meet;
I heard her murmur, felt her sigh,
Saw Phillis live--Phillis die!
Or, (fortune’s spite,) I might alas!
Make my first figure in dowlas
Let me that groveling thought suppress,
Tho’ true I ought not confess:
The world so very nice is grown,
All poor relations we disown;
By fashion justified ill be,
I’m rich--and that’s enough for me.
Perhaps I deck’d a lawyer’s hand,
Or nicely stiffen’d in his band,
What scenes I saw within his breast,
To B--lz--b alone confest,
To touch the Church I must not dare,
For no hypocrisy is there,
No vice, but all serenely pure,
They look most wise, and are so sure.
But fearful lest my verse should slag,
I’ve now worn out a simple rag;
By manufactured’s honest force:
In paper I appear of course,
In this I do, but shift the scene,
And sue new charcters within.
The new-born babe just given to light
Is not more innocently white,
But doom’d by curst misfortune still,
I’m scratched by every goose’s quill.
My own adventures to relate,
Know then it was my happy fate,
To scape from scenes so very wicked,
And first appear’d a Lott’ry Ticket.
Not but I pall one dreadful evil,
The Printer and his Imp, the Devil,
There that my form the more might please,
I suffe’rd a most shocking squeeze;
But this thro’ Purgatory got,
I’m proud of this my happy lot,
Tho’ still thro life I must advance
The very purpos’d child of chance,
One consolation brings me rest
A perfect cordial to my breast;
Tho’ here I am a Refugee,
And tho’ my life a Lottery,
I’m now the Nurse of Charity.
To wipe the tear from mis’ry’s eye,
To bid the bosom cease to sigh,
To soothe the breast oppressed with care,
And banish from the mind despair,
To dry the widow’s silent tear,
The suckling orphan help to rear,
And weak decrepid age sustain,
And take from sickness half its pain;
I’m here a husband and a friend
To them, whose father’s fatal end
Untimely came in danger’s field;
Disdaining death, he would not yield;
But in his country’s cause could die,
Rather than live in slavery;
These, and a thousand blessings more,
Is now my duty to restore;
And fully happy is my state
I feel the pleasures I relate:
For doom’d to charity I lie
Beneath the Treasurer’s watchful eye.
But that I must not dare proclaim,
Or wound his feelings thro’ his name,
To tell who gave me thus to rest,
I could describe a tender breast;
Me by the hand of chance he won,
But wishes to remain unknown:
More happy numbers with me lie,
Consign’d to Peace and Charity.
Then Crysal, join thy power with mine,
And that will make you truly shine,
Wipe off a thousand stains you wear,
And make you like yourself appear:
Exand the miter’s narrow breast,
Tell him his interest stands confest;
Persuade the young, the gay, the smart,
‘Tis I can warm a frozen heart:
If in a gamester’s purse you lie,
‘Tis his own trade--and fortunes nigh,
Be sure to stir each female breast,
There Charity should always rest;
And both shall then be well employ’d,
And each be properly enjoy’d,
And prove examples to the great,
To make the most of wealth and state;
To purchase joys that never die;
And lay up Treasure’s in Eternity.
