THE
Association.
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MOst certainly none
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From the Planets last shone,
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Cou'd promise such Days wou'd advance,
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That the Worst of the Nation
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Shou'd joyn Reformation,
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Who Sold us so lately to France.
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With ONE HEART and VOICE,
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Cry'd they we Rejoyce,
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Tho' Two as distinctly before,
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As Black is from White
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Or Day from the Night,
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Or True Heir from the Son of a Wh--
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Quoth Hermodactyl,
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None knew by my Style,
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Whether I was a Whig or a Tory,
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So I 'ave Room to declare
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With the Rest for the Heir,
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And there is an end of the Story.
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Codicil look'd askew,
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For already He knew,
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He had set down his Name but too often,
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That it look'd as uncouth
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As in being the Mouth,
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What He heartily hated to soften;
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Howe'er there's my Name:
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And I must the same,
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Quoth Gambol; tho lately a Bully,
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I fear I must stand
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With Papers in Hand
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At the Door like a poor sneaking Cully.
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Will Wildfire cry'd, Zounds!
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This our Project confounds,
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Yet I must subscribe in my Turn,
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And smile with the Rest,
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feeling the Jest,
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While inward I heartily mourn.
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Atty Brogue with more ease
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(Being what the Times please)
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Subscrib'd, for the Circle before
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He fully had run,
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And when that is done,
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Will run round a Thousand such more.
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The rest of that Tribe,
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Turn'd each one a Scribe,
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And slap'd down their Names or their Mark,
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And then clos'd their Eyes,
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Like a Man when he dies,
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And is going somewhere in the Dark.
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But what is the Devil,
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They're grown now thus civil,
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Their Principles timely to alter,
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Not from Virtue or Sense,
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They are Shams and Pretense,
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But only the fear of a Halter.
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