Whether, as once in “Peter Porcupine,”
You curse the country whose free air you breathe,
Or, as plain William Cobbett, toil to twine
Around your brows Sedition’s poisoned wreath,
Or, in your letter to Sir Francis, tear
All moral ties asunder with your pen,
We trace your gentle spirit everywhere,
And greet you prince of Slander’s scribbling men.
Well may our hearts with pride and pleasure swell,
To know that face to face we soon shall meet,
We’ll gaze upon you as you stand and sell
Grammars and Garden Seeds in Fulton Street!
And praise your book that tells about the weather,
Our laws, religion, hogs, and things, to boot,
Where your unequalled talents teach together
Turnips and “young ideas how to shoot.”
In recompense, that you’ve designed to make
Choice of our soil above all other lands,
A purse we’ll raise to pay your debts, and take
Your unsold Registers all off your hands.
For this, we ask that you, for once will show
Some gratitude—and, if you can, be civil;
Burn all your books, sell all your pigs, and go—
No matter where—to England, or the devil!
H.
