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A Political Litany

Libera Nos, Domine.—Deliver us, O Lord, not only from British dependence, but also

From a junto that labour with absolute power, Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour, From the lords of the council, who fight against freedom, Who still follow on where delusion shall lead them. From the group at St. James's, who slight our petitions, And fools that are waiting for further submissions— From a nation whose manners are rough and severe, From scoundrels and rascals,—do keep us all clear. From pirates sent out by command of the king To murder and plunder, but never to swing. From Wallace and Greaves, and Vipers and Roses, Whom, if heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses. From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti, Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city, From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear, The little fat man with his pretty white hair. From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown, From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne, From assemblies that vote against Congress proceedings, (Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings.) From Tryon the mighty, who flies from our city, And swelled with importance disdains the committee: (But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes, What the devil care we where the devil he goes.) From the caitiff, lord North, who would bind us in chains, From a royal king Log, with his tooth-full of brains, Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap) He has conquered our lands, as they lay on his map. From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears, We send up to heaven our wishes and prayers That we, disunited, may freemen be still, And Britain go on—to be damned if she will.

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Philip Freneau

by this poet

The great, unequal conflict past, 
   The Briton banish'd from our shore, 
Peace, heav'n-descended, comes at last, 
   And hostile nations rage no more;
      From fields of death the weary swain 
      Returning, seeks his native plain. 

In every vale she smiles serene, 
   Freedom's bright stars more radiant
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 
Hid in this silent, dull retreat, 
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, 
Unseen thy little branches greet: 
  No roving foot shall crush thee here, 
  No busy hand provoke a tear. 
By Nature's self in white arrayed, 
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, 
And planted here

Argument Present Situation of Affairs in North-America.—Address to the Deity.— Unhappy Situation of New-England, in particular.—The first Emigrations of the Colonists from Europe.—Cruelties of the Indian Natives.— All our Hopes of future Safety depend secondarily on our present