University of Virginia Library

To the Senate of York, with all due submission,
Of honest Hugh Gaine, the humble Petition;
An Account of his Life he will also prefix,
At least what was previous to Seventy-Six;
He hopes that your honours will take no offence,
If he sends you some groans of contrition from hence;
And further to prove that he's truly sincere,
He wishes you all a Happy New Year.
And first he informs, in his representation,
That he once was a printer of good reputation,
And dwelt in the street called Hanover Square,
(You'll know where it is if you ever were there)
Next door to the dwelling of Doctor Browne-John
(Who now to the drug-shop of Pluto is gone)
But what do I say—whoe'er came to town,
And knew not Hugh Gaine at the Bible and Crown?
Now, if I were ever so given to lie,
My dear native country I would'nt deny;
(I know you love Teagues) and I shall not conceal
That I came from the kingdom where Phelim O'Neale,
And other brave worthies, ate butter and cheese,
And walk'd in the clover fields up to their knees.
Full early in youth without basket or burden,
With a staff in my hand I passed over Jordan,
(I remember my comrade was Doctor Magraw,
And many strange things on the waters we saw,
Sharks, dolphins, and sea-dogs, bonettas and whales,
And birds at the tropick with quills in their tails).
And came to your city and government seat,
And found it was true you had something to eat:
When thus I wrote home—"The country is good,
" They have plenty of victuals and plenty of wood;
" The people are kind, and whate'er they may think,
" I shall make it appear I can swim where they'll sink;
" And yet they're so brisk, and so full of good cheer,
" By my soul I suspect they have always new year,
" And therefore conceive 'It is good to be here'"}
So said, and so acted, I put up a press,
And printed away with amazing success;
Neglected my person, and look'd like a fright,
Was bothered all day, and was busy all night,
Saw money come in as the papers went out,
While Parker and Weyman were driving about,
And cursing, and swearing, and chewing their cuds,
And wishing Hugh Gaine and his press in the suds.
Ned Weyman was printer you know to the king,
And thought he had got all the world in a string;
(Tho' riches not always attend on a throne)
For he swore I had found the philosopher's stone,
And call'd me a rogue and a son of a b—ch,
Because I knew better than he to get rich!
To malice like that 'twas in vain to reply—
You had known by his looks he was telling a lie.
Thus life ran away, so smooth and serene—
Ah, these were the happiest days I had seen!
But the saying of Jacob I've found to be true,
" The days of thy servant are evil and few!"
The days that to me were joyous and glad,
Are nothing to those which are dreary and sad!
The feuds of the Stamp-Act foreboded foul weather,
And war and vexation all coming together:
Those days were the days of riots and mobs,
Tar, feathers, and tories, and troublesome jobs;
Priests preaching up war for the good of our souls,
And libels, and lying, and Liberty-Poles,
From which, when some whimsical colours you wav'd,
We had nothing to do, but look up and be sav'd—
(You thought by resolving to terrify Britain—
Indeed, if you did, you were damnably bitten.)
I knew it would bring an eternal reproach,
When I saw you a burning Cadwallader's[1] coach;
I knew you would suffer for what you had done,
When I saw you lampooning poor Sawney his son,
And bringing him down to so wretched a level,
As to ride him about in a cart with the devil.
Well, as I predicted that matters would be,—
To the stamp act succeeded a tax upon Tea;
What chests full were scatter'd, and trampled, and drown'd,
And yet the whole tax was but three pence per pound!
May the hammer of Death on my noddle descend,
And Satan torment me to time without end,
If this was a reason to fly into quarrels,
And feuds that have ruin'd our manners and morals;
A parson himself might have sworn round the compass,
That folks for a trifle should make such a rumpus,
Such a rout as to set half the world in a rage,
Make France, Spain and Holland with Britain engage,
While the Emperor, the Swede, the Russ, and the Dane,
All pity John Bull—and run off with his gain.
But this was the season that I must lament—
I first was a whig with an honest intent,
Not a fellow among them talk'd louder, or bolder,
With his sword by his side, or his gun on his shoulder;
Yes, I was a whig, and a whig from my heart,
But still was unwilling with Britain to part—
I thought to oppose her was foolish and vain,
I thought she would turn and embrace us again,
And make us as happy as happy could be,
By renewing the era of mild Sixty Three:
And yet, like a cruel undutiful son,
Who evil returns for the good to le done.
Unmerited odium on Britain to throw,
I printed some treason for Philip F—neau,
Some damnable poems reflecting on Gage,
The King and his Council, and writ with such rage,
So full of invective, and loaded with spleen,
So sneeringly smart, and so hellishly keen,
That, at least in the judgment of half our wise men,
Alecto herself made the nib to his pen.
At this time arose a certain King Sears,
Who made it his study to banish our fears!
He was, without doubt, a person of merit,
Great knowledge, some wit, and abundance of spirit;
Could talk like a lawyer, and that without fee,
And threaten'd perdition to all who drank Tea.
Ah! don't you remember what a vigorous hand he put,
To drag off the great guns, and plague Captain Vandeput?[2]
That night when the hero (his patience worn out)
Put fire to his cannons and folks to the rout,
And drew up his ship with a spring on her cable,
And gave us a second confusion of Babel.
And (what was more solid than scurrilous language)
Pour'd on us a tempest of round shot and langrage:
Scarce a broadside was ended 'till another began again—
By Jove! it was nothing but "Fire away Flannagan!"[3]
At first we suppos'd it was only a sham,
Till he drove a round ball through the roof of Black Sam;[4]
The town by his flashes was fairly enlighten'd,
The women miscarry'd, the beaus were all frightened;
For my part, I hid in a cellar (as sages And Christians were wont in the primitive ages:
Thus the Prophet of old that was wrapt to the sky,
Lay snug in a cave 'till the tempest went by,
But as soon as the comforting spirit had spoke,
He rose and came out with his mystical cloke)
Yet I hardly could boast of a moment of rest,
The dogs were a howling, the town was distrest!
But our terrors soon vanish'd, for suddenly Sears
Renew'd our lost courage and dry'd up our tears.
Our memories, indeed, must have strangely decay'd
If we cannot remember what speeches he made,
What handsome harangues upon every occasion,
How he laugh'd at the whim of a British Invasion!
P-x take 'em (said he) Do you think they will come?
If they should—we have only to beat on our drum,
And run up the flag of American Freedom,
And people will muster by millions to bleed 'em!
What Freeman need value such black-guards as these?
Let us sink in our channel some Cheveaux de Frize.
And then let 'em come—and we'll shew 'em fair play—
But they are not madmen—I tell you—not they!
From this very day 'till the British came in
We lived, I may say, in the Desert of Sin—
Such beating and bruising and scratching and tearing,
Such kicking and cuffing, and cursing and swearing!
But when they advanc'd with their numerous fleet,
And Washington made his nocturnal retreat,
(And which they permitted, I say, to their shame,
Or else your New Empire had been but a name)
We townsmen, like women, of Britons in dread,
Mistrusted their meaning and foolishly fled;
Like the rest of the dunces I mounted my steed,
And gallop'd away with incredible speed.
To Newark I hasten'd—but trouble, and care,
Got up on the crupper, and follow'd me there!
There I scarcely got fuel to keep myself warm,
And scarcely found spirits to weather the storm;
(And was quickly convinc'd, I had little to do,
The whigs, were in arms, and my readers were few);
So after remaining one cold winter's season,
And stuffing my papers with something like treason,
And meeting misfortunes and endless disasters,
And forc'd to submit to a hundred new masters,
I thought it more prudent to hold to the one—
And (after repenting for what I had done,
And cursing my folly, and idle pursuits)
Return'd to the city and hung up my boots.
As matters have gone, it was plainly a blunder,
But then I expected the whigs must knock under,
And I always adhere to the sword that is longest,
And stick to the party that's like to be strongest;
That you have succeeded is merely a chance,
I never once dreampt of the conduct of France!—
If alliance with her you were promis'd—at least}
You ought to have show'd me your star in the East,
Not let me go off uninformed as a beast.
When your army I saw without stockings or shoes,
Or victuals—or money to pay them their dues,
(Excepting your wretched congressional paper,
That stunk in my nose like the snuff of a taper,
A cart load of which for a dram might be spent all,
That da—able bubble the old continental,
That took people in at this wonderful crisis,
With its mottos and emblems, and cunning devices;
Which, bad as it was, you were forc'd to admire,
And which was, in fact, the pillar of fire,
To which you directed your wandering noses,
Like the Jews in the desert, conducted by Moses);
When I saw them attended with famine and fear,
Distress in their front and Howe in their rear;
When I saw them for debt incessantly dunn'd,
Not a shilling to pay them laid up in your fund;
Your ploughs at a stand, and your ships run ashore;
When this was apparent, (and need I say more)?
I handled my cane, and I look'd at my hat,
And cry'd—"G—d have mercy on armies like that!"
I took up my bottle, disdaining to stay,
And said—"Here's a health to the Vicar of Bray,"}
And cock'd up my beaver and strutted away.
Asham'd of my conduct, I sneak'd into town,
(Six hours and a quarter the sun had been down)
It was, I remember, a cold frosty night,
And the stars in the firmament glitter'd as bright,
As if, (to assume a poetical stile)
Old Vulcan had lent them a rub with his file.
Till this cursed night, I can honestly say,
I ne'er before dreaded the dawn of the day;
Not a wolf or a fox that is caught in a trap,
E'er was so asham'd of his nightly mishap.
I cou'dn't help thinking what ills might befal me,
What rebels and rascals the British would call me,
And how I might suffer in credit and purse,
If not in my person, which still had been worse:
At length I resolv'd (as was surely my duty)
To go for advice to parson Auchmuty:
(The parson, who now I hope is in glory,
Was then upon earth, and a terrible tory.
Not Cooper himself, of ideas perplext,
So nicely could handle and torture a text,
When bloated with lies thro' his trumpet he sounded
The da—ble sin of resisting a crown'd head.)
Like a penitent sinner, and dreading my fate,
In the grey of the morning I knock'd at his gate;
(No doubt he was vex'd that I rous'd him so soon,
For his worship was often in blankets 'till noon.)
At length he approach'd in his vestments of black—
(Alas my poor heart! it was then on the rack,
Like a man in an ague, or one to be try'd;
I shook, and recanted, and snivell'd, and sigh'd:)
His gown of itself was amazingly big,
Besides, he had on his canonical wig,
And frown'd at a distance; but when he came near
Look'd pleasant and said—"What, Hugh, are you here!
Your heart, I am certain, is horribly harden'd,
But if you confess, your sin will be pardon'd.
In spite of my preachments, and all I could say,
Like the prodigal son you wander'd away,
Now tell me dear penitent, which is the best,
To be with the rebels, pursu'd and distress'd,
Devoid of all comfort, all hopes of relief.
Or else to be here, and eat the King's beef?
More people resemble the snake than the dove,
And more are converted by terror than love:
Like a sheep on the mountains, or rather a swine,
You wander'd away from the ninety and nine;
Awhile at the offers of mercy you spurn'd.
But your error you saw, and at length have return'd!
Our master will therefore consider your case,
And restore you again to favor and grace,
Great light shall arise from utter confusion,
And rebels shall live to lament their delusion."
" Ah rebels (said I) they are rebels indeed—
Chastisement, I hope, by the King is decreed:
They have hung up his subjects with bedcords and halters,
And banish'd his prophets and thrown down his altars,
And I—even I—while I ventur'd to stay,
They sought for my life, to take it away!
I therefore propose to come under your wing,
A foe to Rebellion—a slave to the King."
Such pitiful whining in scriptural style
Work'd out my salvation, at least for a while;
The parson pronounc'd me deserving of grace,
And so they restored me to printing and place.
But days such as these were too happy to last;
The sand of felicity settled too fast!
When I swore and protested I honor'd the throne,
The least they could do was to let me alone;
Tho' George I compar'd to an angel above,
They wanted some solider proofs of my love;
And so they oblig'd me each morning to come
And turn in the ranks at the beat of the drum,
While often, too often, (I tell it with pain)
They menac'd my head with a hickory cane,
While others, my betters, as much were opprest—
But shame and confusion shall cover the rest.
You doubtless will think I am dealing in fable,
When I tell you I guarded an officer's stable—
With usage like this my feelings are stung;
The next thing will be, I must heave out the dung!
Six hours in the day is duty too hard,
And Rivington sneers whene'er I mount guard,
And laughs 'till his sides are ready to split
With his jests, and his satires, and sayings of wit:
Because he's excus'd on account of his post,
He cannot go by without making his boast,
As if I was all that is servile and mean—
But fortune perhaps may alter the scene,
And give him his turn to stand in the street,
Burnt brandy supporting his radical heat.
But what for the King or the cause has he done,
That we must be toiling while he can look on?
Great conquests he gave them on paper, tis true,
When Howe was retreating, he made him pursue.
From hence you may guess I do nothing but grieve,
And where we are going I cannot conceive—
The wisest among us a change are expecting,
It is not for nothing these ships are collecting,
It is not for nothing that Matthews, the mayor,
And legions of tories, for sailing prepare;
It is not for nothing that John Coghill Knapp
Is filing his papers and plugging his tap;
See Skinner himself, the fighting attorney,
Is boiling potatoes to serve a long journey;
But where they are going, or meaning to travel,
Would puzzle John Faustus himself to unravel,
Perhaps to Penobscot, to starve in the barrens,
Perhaps to St. John, in the gulf of St. Lawrence;
Perhaps to New-Scotland, to perish with cold,
Perhaps to Jamaica, like slaves to be sold,
Where scorch'd by the summer all nature repines,
Where Phoebus, great Phoebus, too glaringly shines,
And fierce from the zenith diverging his ray
Distresses the isle with a torrent of day.
Since matters are thus, with proper submission,
Permit me to offer my humble petition;
(Tho' the form is uncommon, and lawyers may sneer,
With truth I can tell you, the scribe is sincere.)
That, since it is plain we are going away,
You will suffer Hugh Gaine unmolested to stay.
His sand is near run (life itself is a span)
So leave him to manage as well as he can:
Who'er are his masters, or monarchs, or regents,
For the future he'll promise to swear them allegiance;
If the Turk with his turban should set up at last here
While he gives him protection he'll own him his master
And yield due obedience (when Britain is gone)
Tho' rul'd by the sceptre of Presbyter John.
My press that has call'd you (as tyranny drove her)
Rogues, rebels, and rascals, a thousand times over,
Shall be at your service by day and by night,
To publish whate'er you think proper to write:
Those types which have rais'd George the third to a level
With angels—shall prove him as black as the devil,
To him that contriv'd him a shame and disgrace,
Nor blest with one virtue to honour his race!
Who knows but, in time, I may rise to be great,
And have the good fortune to manage a state?
Great noise among people great changes denotes,
And I shall have money to purchase their votes;
The time is approaching, I'll venture to say,
When folks of my stamp shall come into play,
When the false hearted tory shall give himself airs,
And rise to take hold of the helm of affairs,
While the honest bold soldier that sought your renown,
Like a dog in the dirt shall be crush'd and held down.
Of honours and profits allow me a share!
I frequently dream of a president's chair!
And visions full often intrude on my brain,
That for me to interpret would be rather vain!
Blest seasons advance, when Britons shall find
That they can be happy, and you can be kind,
When rebels no longer at traitors shall spurn,
When Arnold himself shall in triumph return!
But my paper informs me its time to conclude.
I fear my address has been rather too rude—
If it has—for my boldness your pardon I pray,
And further, at present, presume not to say,
Except that (for form's sake) in haste I remain
Your humble Petitioner—honest—