Classic Poem

Are we not all of race divine,
Alike of an immortal line?
Shall man to man afford derision,
But for some casual division?
To malice, and to mischief prone,
From climate, canton, or from zone,
Are all to idle discord bent,
These Kentish men — those men of Kent;
And parties and distinction make,
For parties and distinction's sake.
Souls sprung from an etherial flame,
However clad, are still the same;
Nor should we judge the heart or head,
By air we breathe, or earth we tread.
Dame Nature, who, all meritorious,
In a true Englishman is glorious;
Is lively, honest, brave and bonny,
In Monsieur, Taffy, Teague, and Sawney
Give prejudices to the wind,
And let's be patriots of mankind.
Bigots, avaunt, sense can't endure ye,
But fabulists should try to cure ye.
A snub-nos'd Dog to fat inclin'd
Of the true hogan mogan kind,
The favourite of an English dame,
Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name:
One morning as he chanc'd to range,
Met honest Towzer on the 'Change;
And whom have we got here, I beg,
Quoth he, — and lifted up his leg;
An English dog can't take an airing,
But foreign scoundrels must be staring
I'd have your French dogs and your Spanish,
And all your Dutch and all your Danish,
By which our species is confounded,
Be hang'd, be poison'd, or be drownded;
No mercy on the race suspected,
Greyhounds from Italy excepted:
By them my dames ne'er prove big bellied,
For they poor toads are Farrinellied
Well of all dogs it stands confess'd,
Your English bull dogs are the best;
I say it, and will set my hand to't,
Cambden records it, and I'll stand to't.
'Tis true we have too much urbanity,
Somewhat o'ercharg'd with soft humanity;
The best things must find food for railing,
And every creature has its failing.
And who are you? reply'd Van Trump,
( Curling his tail upon his rump )
Vaunting the regions of distraction,
The land of party and of faction
In all fair Europe, who but we,
For national aeconomy;
For wealth and peace, that have more charms,
Than learned arts, or noisy arms
You envy us our dancing bogs,
With all the music of the frogs;
Join'd to the Tretchscutz's bonny loon,
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune
For poets, and the muses nine,
Beyond comparision we shine;
Oh! how we warble in our gizzards,
With X X's, H H's and with Z Z's.
For fighting — now you think I'm joking;
We love it better far than smoaking.
Ask but our troops, from man to boy,
Who all surviv'd at Fontenoy.
'Tis true, as friends, and as allies,
We're ever ready to devise
Our loves, or any kind assistance,
That may be granted at a distance;
But if you go to brag, good bye t' ye,
Nor dare to brave the High and Mighty.
Wrong are you both, rejoins a Quail,
Confin'd within its wiry jail:
Frequent from realm to realm I've rang'd,
And with the seasons, climates chang'd
Mankind is not so void of grace,
But good I've found in every place:
I've seen sincerity in France,
Amongst the Germans complaisance;
In foggy Holland wit may reign,
I've known humility in Spain;
Free'd was I by a turban'd Turk,
Whose life was one entire good work;
And in this land, fair freedom's boast,
Behold my liberty is lost.
Despis'd Hibernia have I seen,
Dejected like a widow'd queen;
Her robe with dignity long worn,
And cap of liberty were torn;
Her broken fife, and harp unstrung,
On the uncultur'd ground were flung;
Down lay her spear, defil'd with rust,
And book of learning in the dust;
Her loyalty still blameless found,
And hospitality renown'd:
No more the voice of fame engross'd,
In discontent and clamour lost. —
Ah! dire corruption, art thou spread,
Where never viper rear'd its head?
And didst thy baleful influence sow,
Where hemlock nor the nightshade grow?
Hapless, disconsolate, and brave,
Hibernia! who'll Hibernia save?
Who shall assist thee in thy woe,
Who ward from thee the fatal blow?
'Tis done, the glorious work is done,
All thanks to heav'n and H ARTINGTON .