JACOBINS to their Brethren of FRANCY..

W Liberty pray,

HILE to you we true children of

Great Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, attend; Who with heads on your pikes fo facetionfly play,

Mirth and murder fo merrily blend !

Oye boafts of proud France, ye bright lights of the earth,

Who, in fine philofophical (peeches, Prove the only criterion of virtue and worth Confifts in the bareness of breeches!

Brother Jacobins, liften; and, if you can ceafe To gaze on your glorious Convention, Where the point of the dagger beits propa

Ah! confider how many long months are past And how many lingʼring long days, [over, Since you promifed to haften from Calais to Dover,

Wretched Britons from ilavery to raise; To reclaim us at length from political vice, To write reformation in blood; To bestow on us liberty not without lice, All, all, for our ultimate good. For, Britons, alas! are a nation of flaves, More full of plumb-pudding than wit, Warm with rapture, while Burke against anarchy raves,

Ever licking the fpittle of Pitt! Ah! think, gallant Frenchmen, while thus you delay,

What misfortunes your friends here betide: Ah! think how the tyrants their leaders difmay,

Forc'd in holes, like true adders, to hide! See, fee, your own Froft, through the pill'ry,

Thruft out his deplorable phiz; [on high, While Mock'ry with loll'd tongue ftands infultingly by,

While dangers and death round him whiz ! See the fad Prefbyterian, fo gentle and nieck, To the wilds of America roam ; [feek, With his wife and his daughters, preparing to Near naked lewd Indians, an home! Sweet foul, of whofe grievances great is the fum,

Who from Teft-laws can get no releafe, Who would defuge Ins country with blood, to become

An Excifeman or Juftice of Peace! Ch! then to our aid of thofe heroes, that die Without dread of the claws of old scratch, Who laugh and blafpheme, as to flaughter they fly,

A few odd hundred thoufand dispatcha!

have our wheat,

And leave us poor Englishmen nothing to eat. Derry down, down, down derry down. They call us already a province of France, And come here by hundreds to teach us to dance;

They fay we are heavy, they fay we are dull, And that beef and plumb-pudding's not good for John Bull.

They jaw in their clubs, murder women and
pricfts,
[feafts-
And then for their fih-wives they make civic
Civic feafts! what are they? why, a new-
For which they renounce both their God and
fathion'd thing,
[their King!

And yet there's no eating, 'tis all foolith play,
For when pies are cut open, the birds fly away;
But Frenchmen admire it, and fancy they ice
That Liberty's fix'd at the top of a tree.
They fay man and wife should to longer be one,
Do you take a daughter, and I'll take a fon;
And as all things are equal, and all should

be free,

[fuit me.

If your wife don't fuit you, Sir, perhaps the'll But our ladies are virtuous, our ladies are fair, Which is more than they tell us your French[are free,

women are;

They know they are happy, they know they And that Liberty's not at the top of a tree. They take from the rich, but don't give to [door;

the poor, And to all forts of mifchief they'd open the Then let's be united, and know when we're well,

Nor believe all the lies thefe Republicans tell. Our foldiers and failors will answer thefe fparks, [fpit us ke larks; But, Britons, don't fear them, for Britons are Though they threaten'd Damourier fhould free,

And know Liberty's not to be found on a tree.

They try to deceive us, our lofs is their gain, Which is all we can learn from the works of Tom Paine;

But let Britons be wife, as they're brave and they're free,

lea. And still Britain fhall rule in the midst other

Then ftand by the Church, and the King, and the Laws,

The Old Lion ftill has his teeth and his claws; We know of no Defpots, we've nothing to

fear,