University of Virginia Library

Fab. X. Lubberland.

A land there is, as Maps do tell,
(Tho they describe it not right well)
Nor near the Hot nor Frigid Zone,
But Latitude of fifty one;
In Nature's Plenty do's abound,
With Fruits and Flocks is amply crown'd:
The Natives never are content
But with Tyrannick Government;
They Men resemble by their Faces,
But by their Backs resemble Asses:
For each is born with a great Pack,
A warlike Saddle on his Back,
Which do's adorn the Parts are upper,
On nether Parts they wear a Crupper.
Their Kings, as 'tis decreed by Jove,
Do always jump down from above:
Arm'd Cap-a-pee with Boots and Spurs,
Just fit to mount such servile Curs:
With Hunting-whips they daily maul 'em,
And with long rowled Spurs do gall 'em.
He only is the great Bravado,
Has most the Regal Bastinado.
They leap and jump, and frisk and skip,
And sing the Praises of the Whip:
They bear the Lash without once bogging,
Extol the Royal Art of flogging.
With Blanket-Coat and Wooden-Shoes,
The Man the Camel scarce outdoes.
Whilst Freemen feed on Dainties fine,
These do on Bread and Garlick dine;
And if they spend a Soulx in Wine,
The Health drank round must always be,
Their King's applauded Tyranny:
Still let 'em be curs'd Slaves for me.