Classic Poem

Ye worthy patriots go on
To heal the nation's sores,
Find all men's faults out but your own.
Begin good laws, but finish none,
And then shut up your doors.

Fail not our freedom to secure,
And all our friends disband,
And send those fools to t'other shore
Who knew no better than to come o'er
To help this grateful land.

And may the next that hear us pray,
And in distress relieve us,
Go home like those without their pay,
And with contempt be sent away
For having once believed us.

And if the French should e'er attempt
This nation to invade,
May they be damned that 'list again,
But lead your famed militia on,
To be like us betrayed.

As for the crown you have bestowed
With all its limitations,
The meanest prince in Christendom
Would never stir a mile from home
To govern three such nations.

The king himself, whom ye have called
Your savior in distress,
You have his first request denied,
And then his royal patience tried
With a canting sham address.

Ye are the men that to be chose
Would be at no expenses,
Who love no friends, nor fear no foes,
And have ways and means that no man knows
To mortify our senses.

Ye are the men that can condemn
By laws made ex post facto,
Who can make knaves of honest men,
And married women turn again
To be virgo et intacta.

Go on to purify the court,
And damn the men of places,
Till decently you send them home,
And get your selves put in their room,
And then you'll change your faces.

Go on to reestablish trade,
And mend our navigation,
Let India India invade,
And borrow on funds that will ne'er be paid,
And bankrupt all the nation.

'Tis you that calculate our gold,
And with a senseless tone
Vote what you never understood,
That we might take them if we would
Or let them all alone.

Your missives you send round about
With Mr. Speaker's letter,
To fetch folks in, and find folks out,
Which fools believe without dispute,
Because they know no better.

You borrowed ships and hired men
The Irish to reduce,
Who will be paid the Lord knows when
'Tis hoped whene'er you want again,
You'll think of that abuse.

Ye laid sham taxes on our malt,
On salt, and glass, and leather,
To wheedle coxcombs in to lend;
Then like true cheats you drop the fund,
And sink them all together.

And now y'are piously inclined
The needy to employ;
You'd better much your time bestow
To pay the neglected debts you owe,
Which make them multiply.

Against profaneness you declared,
And then the bill rejected;
And when your arguments appeared,
They were the worst that e'er were heard,
And the best that we expected.

'Twas voted once, that for the sin
Of whoring men should die all;
But then 'twas wisely thought again,
The House would quickly grow so thin,
They durst not stand the trial.

King Charles the Second knew your aim,
And places gave and pensions;
And had King William's money flown,
His Majesty would soon have known
Your consciences' dimensions.

But he has wisely given you up
To work your own desires,
And, laying arguments aside
As things that have in vain been tried,
To fasting, calls, and prayers.
Chorus

Your hours are choicely employed,
Your petitions lie all on the table,
With funds insufficient,
And taxes deficient,
And debts which are innumerable.

For shame leave this wicked employment,
Reform both your manners and lives;
You were never sent out
To make such a rout,
Go home and look after your wives.