Classic Poem

I AM a hearty Jacobin,
Who own no God, and dread no sin,
Ready to dash through thick and thin
For Freedom:

And when the Teachers of Chalk Farm
Gave Ministers so much alarm,
And preach'd that Kings did only harm,
I fee'd 'em.

By Bedford's cut I've trimm'd my locks,
And coal-black is my knowledge-box,
Callous to all, except hard knocks
Of thumpers:

My eye a noble fierceness boasts,
My voice as hollow as a ghost's,
My throat oft wash'd by Factious Toasts
In bumpers.

Whatever is in France, is right;
Terror and blood are my delight;
Parties with us do not excite
Enough rage.

Our boasted Laws I hate and curse,
Bad from the first, by age grown worse,
I pant and sigh for univers-
al suffrage.

Wakefield I love — adore Horne Tooke,
With pride on Jones and Thelwall look,
And hope that they, by hook or crook
Will prosper.

But they deserve the worst of ills,
And all the abuse of all our quills,
Who form'd of strong and gagging Bills
A cross pair.

Extinct since then each Speaker's fire,
And silent every daring lyre,
Dum-founded they who I would hire
To lecture.

Tied up, alas! is every tongue
On which conviction nightly hung,
And Thelwall looks, though yet but young,
A spectre.