May this one charm infernal powers affright,
And guard you from the terror of the night;
May ev’ry cheerful glass as it goes down
To William’s health, be cordials to your own:
Let ev’ry song be chorust with his name,
And music pay her tribute to his fame;
Let ev’ry poet tune his artful verse,
And in immortal strains his deeds rehearse:
And may Apollo never more inspire
The disobedient bard with his seraphic fire
May all my sons their grateful homage pay,
His praises sing, and for his safety pray.
Satire, return to our unthankful isle,
Secured by heaven’s regards, and William’s toil:
To both ungrateful, and to both untrue,
Rebels to God, and to good nature too.
If e’er this nation be distress’d again,
To whomsoe’er they cry, they’ll cry in vain;
To heav’n they cannot have the face to look,
Or, if they should, it would but heav’n provoke;
To hope for help from man would be too much,
Mankind would always tell ’em of the Dutch:
How they came here our freedoms to maintain,
Were paid, and cursed, and hurried home again;
How by their aid we first dissolved our fears,
And then our helpers damn’d for foreigners:
’Tis not our English temper to do better,
For Englishmen think ev’ry one their debtor.
’Tis worth observing, that we ne’er complain’d
Of foreigners, nor of the wealth we gain’d,
Till all their services were at an end:
Wise men affirm it is the English way,
Never to grumble till they come to pay;
And then they always think, their temper’s such,
The work too little, and the pay too much.
As frighted patients, when they want a cure,
Bid any price, and any pain endure:
But when the doctor’s remedies appear,
The cure’s too easy, and the price too dear:
Great Portland near was banter’d when he strove,
For us his master’s kindest thoughts to move:
We ne’er lampoon’d his conduct, when employ’d
King James’s secret councils to divide:
Then we caress’d him as the only man,
Who could the doubtful oracle explain;
The only Hushai, able to repel
The dark designs of our Achitophel:
Compared his master’s courage to his sense,
The ablest statesman, and the bravest prince;
On his wise conduct we depended much,
And liked him ne’er the worse for being Dutch:
Nor was he valued more than he deserved,
Freely he ventured, faithfully he served;
In all King William’s dangers he has shared,
In England’s quarrels always he appear’d:
The revolution first, and then the Boyne,
In both, his counsels and his conduct shine;
His martial valour Flanders will confess,
And France regrets his managing the peace;
Faithful to England’s interest and her king,
The greatest reason of our murmuring:
Ten years in English service he appear’d,
And gain’d his master’s and the world’s regard;
But ’tis not England’s custom to reward,
The wars are over, England needs him not;
Now he’s a Dutchman, and the Lord knows what.
Schonbergh, the ablest soldier of his age,
With great Nassau did in our cause engage;
Both join’d for England’s rescue and defence,
The greatest captain and the greatest prince;
With what applause his stories did we tell,
Stories which Europe’s volumes largely swell!
We counted him an army in our aid,
Where he commanded, no man was afraid;
His actions with a constant conquest shine,
From Villa Vitiosa to the Rhine;
France, Flanders, Germany, his fame confess,
And all the world was fond of him but us:
Our turn first served, we grudged him the command,
Witness the grateful temper of the land.
We blame the King, that he relies too much,
On Strangers, Germans, Hugonots, and Dutch;
And seldom does his great affairs of state,
To English counsellors communicate:
The fact might very well be answer’d thus:
He had so often been betray’d by us,
He must have been a madman to rely,
On English gentlemen’s fidelity;
For, laying other argument aside:
This thought might mortify our English pride;
That foreigners have faithfully obey’d him,
And none but Englishmen have e’er betray’d him:
They have our ships and merchants bought and sold,
And barter’d English blood for foreign gold;
First to the French they sold our Turkey fleet,
And injured Talmarsh next at Cameret;
The king himself is shelter’d from their snares,
Not by his merits, but the crown he wears;
Experience tells us ’tis the English way,
Their benefactors always to betray.
And, lest examples should be too remote,
A modern magistrate of famous note,
Shall give you his own history by rote;
I’ll make it out, deny it he that can,
His worship is a true-born Englishman;
By all the latitude that empty word,
By modern acceptation’s understood:
The parish books his great descent record,
And now he hopes ere long to be a lord;
And truly, as things go, it would be pity,
But such as he bore office in the city;
While robb’ry for burnt-offering he brings,
And gives to God what he has stole from kings;