Here’s to thee, Neighbour, e’er we part
I see thou’st Something brewing:
Thou look’st forlorn and sick at Heart;
I’st for thy Country’s Ruin?
’Tis all in vain, whilst venal Souls
Great Britain’s Fate determine,
From Paultry Rogues in Copyholds
To pamper’d Slaves in Ermine.

Though little’s left us in the Pound,
Wee’ll drown our Cares in Wine, Sir,
Though servile Laeyes do abound
To lie and to define, Sir,
A Song to Courtly Ears uncouth,
I do propose to sing, Sir;
What Briton dares not speak the Truth?
I wish’d it reach’d the King, Sir.

When great Elizabeth sustain’d
Our British Crown and Glory,
To rule by Parties she disdain’d;
She knew nor Whig or Tory;
No foreign Nation drain’d her Purse,
Nor did She, false and senseless,
Consult another’s Safety first,
And leave her own defenceless.

Two Men for Ministers She nam’d
Who both had Men and Law read;
Alike for Truth and Knowledge fam’d;
By all Mankind applauded,
No Hungry Friends had they to feed
With public Funds and Plunder;
They both meant well, and both agreed
In those Days ’twas no Wonder,

Each foreign State her Friendship priz’d,
While Freedom she supported;
Each sued for Aid, Each subsidiz’d;
Great Britain then was courted.
Learn hence, ye Britons, ’eer ye fall,
What Part becomes your Nation;
What can ye hope, whi’st Dupes to all,
But Shame and Desolation?

Quoth Philip, I’ll yon Queen assail
(A Prince all Europe dreaded)
Her Answer was, Great Sir, you’ll fail,
I’m to my People wedded;
Though I no standing Armies keep,
Because of your Bravado;
I ne’er can think my Subjects Sheep,
Nor fear I your Armado.

His Troops we such as never fail’d,
His Ships were tall and great, Sir;
Her Ministers knew when they sail’d
Nor sent her own too late, Sir;
Each briton, arm’d for her Defence,
Impatient took his Station;
And prov’d that mutual Confidence,
Will ever guard this Nation.

A Line I must to Edward’s Worth,
And also both the Harrys.
Who led their faithful Subjects forth:
Their Standard fix’d at Paris:
Their Subjects they ne’er treacherous thought,
Because there were Pretenders;
Nor Goths or Vandals ever brought,
As Britain’s fit Defenders.

Now to our Times we’ll turn our Eyes,
Time’s surely full of Ruin;
When every Slave, who fawns and lies
Can thrive by our Undoing;
See M[arlborough] struts in martial Pow’r.
Who Ox[ford]’s Rights debased;
See him, who found five less than four,
For Merit higher placed.

Lo! servile Paul shall cant and sigh,
Like Beggar at your Door, Sir,
And then each Sum shall misapply,
Yet shameless ask for more, Sir.
’Tis hard, poor Paul to blame indeed,
Turn’s Treasurer from Dervis;
You Know, the Sum he could not read;
How should he know the Service?

But still with heavier Heart you’ll see,
The Man who rules the Roast, Sir;
What Parts, what Principle has he,
But Name of Whig to boast, Sir?
O Name, defi’ld by foulest Dirt!
By basest Prostitution!
By ev’ry Sin that could subvert
The British Constitution!

Unfit to stem the Time’s rough Tides,
All Ways his Noddle Bobs, Sir,
He floats just as the Current drives,
Buoy’d up alone on Jobbs, Sir:
Conjoin’d to one he fears and hates,
And fain wou’d not employ, Sir,
But must submit ’cause none so fit,
Our Freedom to destroy, Sir.

Of meanest Birth, by vilest tricks
Stole up to highest Station,
Of dark design, black Politicks,
See F[o]x conduct the Nation:
Sworn foe to Justice, Law and Sense,
He threatens all Debators,
Like Cataline, his best defence
Is in his Gladiators.

Say mighty W[illiam], God of wrath
Who at C[ulloden] sav’d us;
And since like mightier Caesar hath
By Conqueror’s right ensl[av’]d Us?
Say by what rule it does appear,
And suit thy Prussian System,
To keep three Colonels voting here,
When poor old Blakeney mist ’em.

To hold the Sword ar’t not content,
’Tis more than thy proportion;
To have also the P[arliament],
And all at thy devotion.
See France our Colonies still rends,
With slaughter and distraction,
While each Red Senator attends,
At West[minste]r thy F[actio]n.

Well may each Briton view Mahon,
With Conscious Shame and Horror
And well may G[eorge]’s setting Sun
Go down in Tears of Sorrow:
While Men, like these sit at the Helm,
On Plunder sole intent, Sir,
Of safety sure, while they secure
A pension’d P[arliament], Sir,

Yet better Times from G[eorge] we’ll hope
When those, their Country barter
Receive their just Reward, a R[ope],
And not a Place, or Garter.
When British Principles prevail
And grace a British King, Sir,
Then you and I will quaff our Ale,
And merryer Songs will Sing, Sir.