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A CRYING EPISTLE FROM BRITANNIA

TO COLONEL MACK, Including a Naked Portrait of the KING, QUEEN, and PRINCE, With Notes, Political, Philosophical and Personal.

9

BRITANNIA TO COLONEL MACK,

GREETING.

Prodigious man! nutmeg of sturdy wights;
Hero of heroes, light of all the lights:
Who's done such wonders and has seen such sights;
Save me from ruin, gallant Colonel Mack,
Oh what a way I'm in—good lack!
From Danton, Roberspierre and all those dogs,
Who call my bishops rogues, all sovereigns logs;
Who anarchize the world, and gobble frogs,
Save me, oh save me, noble Colonel Mack,
Oh what a way I'm in—good lack!
10

Germans have had a general rout and Funk;
And we a general fast, and general Monk;
Yet is our hope and eke our honor sunk!
Oh haste and save us, matchless Colonel Mack,
Lord what a way we're in—good lack!
They make our gracious king himself look blue!
Our peers all pallid, and our knights askew,
The devil ride a hunting with the crew:
Bully the cannibals, great Colonel Mack,
Oh what a way I'm in—good lack!
Thou man of men, who ravishes renown,
Who gives or takes the lustre from a crown:
Point of delight with country, court, and town;
Oh haste and save me, princely Colonel Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Oh Chief, before whose arm, whole nations fled,
Wonderful man!—though fierce yet so well bred;
Who knits his brows and looks battalions dead:
But, slash, dash, maim, my Herculean Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Peg Nicholson assail'd the Lords anointed!
Dolts to my fleets and armies, are appointed!
Can any marvel that my mind's disjointed?
11

Ah! venez mon ami, relieve me Mack,
Oh what a way I'm in—good lack!
My branches, Peg and Paddy, make a rout
'Bout freedom and such stuff, which like the gout,
Pains both extremes, and then it oozes out,
Must I be ever tortur'd, tell me Mack?
Oh what a way I'm in—good lack!
Merchants of old, would poze o'er Tare and Tret:
My merchants now will o'er Demoivre fret:
Damme I'll advertise my shop to let.
12

Unless you rescue me, my ruthless Mack,
Oh what a way I'm in—good lack;
Give every Sans Culotte a kick or knock;
To bring those ruffians to Perdition's block,
I'd pawn my petticoat, aye zounds my smock;
Come to my arms, my sympathetic Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
My Lion's indispos'd—my friend's inglorious;
My shield's bedaub'd with filth—my foes victorious:
Let not the swinish rabble be uproarious:
Cramp their rude organs, pester them my Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Poor Ursula is ravish'd,—Maud's with child!
Sweet Genevieve is burnt and Agnes broil'd;
Should even wooden Saints be thus defil'd?
13

Rise up in arms, my prop, my pious Mack.
Oh what a way I'm in—good lack!
'Sblood where is Watty Lewes and his bands;
His yellow boys, who fight for house and lands:
What can I do but weep, they've tied my hands?
Ah! be not torpid, venerable Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
The hair upon my head's turn'd white with thinking,
My drapery's threadbare, and my firmness sinking:
Now all my spirit's gone, I take to drinking!
When I am muzzy pity me great Mack.
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Virtue's denied the privilege of dining;
My shuttle's dusty—my battalions whining,
All Stock but that of Impudence declining!
Regenerate my interests peerless Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
My expectation's wind-bound—Wonder reigns:
Hymen is in the suds, and Love in chains;
C---e has turn'd his coat, and P---z his brains!
Correct the universe, refulgent Mack:
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
14

My summer suns roll on, yet few make hay:
All have been ruin'd—all in ruin gay!
All rush to run in debt, but none to pay!
Tell me why Men are thus, didactic Mack?
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
My Ledger's smear'd by knaves in Friendship's guise:
Cyphers in every corner meet my eyes!
Then why I'm bankrupt how can I devise?
Such errors madden me, ah smite 'em Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Faith like a Polypus is subdivided,
The points of moral right are undecided:
Priests and old women are alike derided.
Be hot with wrath, great iron-hearted Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Nymphs scud to Folly's fair, and leave their stitches;
My banks are paper cramm'd, but few have riches;
The Arts wants sustenance, the Artists breeches.
15

Say, shall a Muse be ragged, liberal Mack?
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
My tears run scalding like the Stygian river:
My o'erwrought anger's half consum'd my liver:
And asking half a crown, can find no giver,
Heu date Obolum,, loquacious Mack.
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Commerce is lame—the Law lost half her whips,
Let them not force me, to repair these slips:
To fasten slumpy brooms upon my ships:
Exterminate maurauders, ardent Mack;
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Curst be the hour when Metaphysics rose,
To make the docile and their leaders foes:
And give the Lamb of Peace terrific blows.
'Tis yours to maul the caitiffs, radiant Mack!
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
W---m's verbose, and L---h is loud,
B---k---m's ossified, and G---lle's proud:
P---'s in a fog, and B---ke is in a cloud.
Pity my feelings, smile illustrious Mack.
Lord What a way I'm in—good lack!
16

Opinion shews you as a demi-God!
Fate bends his iron muscles at your nod!—
The Universe shall bow and kiss your rod.
Such potency is thine, intrepid Mack:
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Must I, Coz-german to the best of Kings,
Be goaded by the malice, jeers and flings,
Of bilious brutes, and democratic things?
Forbid it heaven, forbid it fearless Mack.
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Offspring of Mars: dread unique of the earth,
Bellona swaddled you in thund'ring mirth:
Kingdoms shall arrogate your radient birth,
17

Now think of that my memorable Mack;
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Billy's outrun the Constable, I fear,
I'll make him garrulous with Whitbread's cheer:
I know the dog is leaky in his beer.
Should he be found a bifrons trounce him Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Fortune shall bask beneath your brilliant eye;
Cherubs shall hail you from their inmost sky;
Bards shall immortalise you, ere you die.
Such wondrous recompence awaits my Mack.
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
18

My Constitution's worn by knawing ills,
I've tried both Velno's Syrup and Ward's pills:
I've had all unctions which nor cures nor kills:
Bring a hot lavement, and infuse it Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
I've had two fits, when scarce my inmates knew me:
When Ingrates North and South suppos'd they slew me;
A third, the Grey beards rumour will undo me:
Aid my debility, renowned Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
19

Pray mid your Sophs, does any art remain,
To wipe from Memory's tablet Error's slain:
Or wash Time's cobwebs from a Matron's brain?
Send me an Empiric, illumin'd Mack,
Lord What a way I'm in—good lack!
The rabble tieze me with their yells and whoops!
What would they have? they bawl in motly groupes:
I've sent my flannel night cap to the troops;
My scull's defenceless: woe is mine my Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
T---e has run among his brats at Knight's Hill;
Meek H---'ry toils to twist the sense but writes ill:
Young Fred has spirit, but the Tyro fights ill:
Such Ninnies fret me to the quick dear Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
20

D---s can't make a shift, yet's often ruffled!
M---e and spouse, though whore and rogue, have scuffled!
The Nation's bled—the Nation's prayers are snuffled!
Sure Common Sense is moider'd, gentle Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
P*t was presuming when a young beginner:
S---d---y's a scroyle—A---d---n's a luckless winner!
I wish with all my soul their sculls were thinner!
Cannot you plane the cranium, honest Mack?
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Ah Louis Seize, they seiz'd thy sacred head,
And threw it reeking mid the vulgar dead:
But he shall reign although his Spirit's fled.
Noddle or none, a King's a king my Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Th'Atlantic once all duteous wash'd my shores,
But now the saucy Hussey rolls and roars,
And publishes with France, her foul amours!
Turn Neptune's cock, empty her dish my Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
21

In the Council chamber, there's a Rat of power,
I've often smelt his fœces, rank and sour:
Who nibbles Magna Charta every hour.
Send me a trap, to snare this Reptile, Mack,
Oh what a way I'm in—good lack!
In a few weeks I'll take a trip to Dover;
But if I see that Gallia lives in clover:
I'll bid the curtain drop! the farce is over!
Placemen and Pensioners have bruis'd me, Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
22

Nobles to nothing noble now incline;
Like crawling worms they best in darkness shine;
Those who love Lords, love not such Lords as mine!
Cannot you meliorate these Bipeds Mack?
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
23

Sure Mack, 'twas you, who strutted in the Moon:
And dropt mid us to keep the mob in tune—
Tell me if Dian takes her tea at noon.
Or visits 'mong the Lady Planets, Mack?
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
The beatitudes are unfulfill'd, though few,
None hide the naked from the sinners' view,
Or cram the hungry mouth, but good old Q.
Restore morality religious Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Stulti with paste and scissors botch our plays,
Proud Wit's denied the privilege of praise!
Lo Phœbus p*ss*s on Sir Fretful's bays!
Say should the bawdy Sun crush Mungrels, Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Damn'd be that hour, I once, like Mistress Draper,
Was grip'd and did the deed of fœtid vapour,
Then seiz'd the Bill of Rights as Common paper.
Oh direful blunder—spare my blushes Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Gaunt Ell---t's swoln like Cœti with their vast skins,
G---y's become incessant in his askings:
Great Br---ns---k has befoul'd his galligaskins!
24

Ah! wipe the hero down, my decent Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
My pauper Premier 'mid the Alarmists glories,
B---ke bodders B---nt---ck with his Jesuit stories:
Tories are whitewash'd, and my Whigs turn'd Tories:
Sure day is night, and night is day, my Mack:
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
P---t stirs his puppets, and his Ducks and Drakes!
The Royal Garden's marr'd with weeds and snakes:
Decency's fences every whipster breaks;
My soul has sicken'd at the sight dear Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
The French, like goblins, haunt my troublous sleep,
Methinks, I see them plough the foaming deep:
I curse, and pray, and grunt, and groan, and weep!
Make Ocean swallow them, my ireful Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Should Barrere drive my car in Ruin's ruts,
Or paw my frame, as Louis us'd his sluts:
By holy Paul, I'll kick him in the guts!
Oh save me from pollution, valorous Mack,
Lord what a way I'm in—good lack!
Yours duly and truly, Britannia.
At the Broken Anchor, Little Britain. March 11th, 1794, OLD STYLE.
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