The New Hampshire Gazette And General Advertiser

The TORY's SOLILOQUY.

That scowls indignant o'er the dreary Bay
Of Fundy and Cape Sable's rocks and shoals,
And seek our new domain in Scotia's wilds.
Barren and bare:--nor stay among the Rebels
And, by our stay rouze up the keenest rage.
That, bursting o'er our now defenceless heads.
Will crush us for the countless wrongs we've done
them

Hard choice! Stay! let me think.--To explore our way
Thro' raging seas, to Scotia's rocky coast,
At this dire season of this direful year.
Where scarce the sun affords a cheerful ray?
Or stay and cringe to the rude surly whigs.
Whose wounds, yet fresh, may urge their desperate
hands

To spurn us while we sue; --perhaps consign us
TO the KIND CARE Of some OUTRAGEOUS MOB.
Who, for their sport our persons may adorn
In all the Majesty of TAR and FEATHERS;
Perhaps our necks, to keep their humour warm
May grace a Rebel halter! --That's the thing,
This people's the bleak clime--For who can brook
A Rebel's frown --or hear his children's stare
When in the streets they point and lisp "A Tory."
The open insult, the piercing stab
Of satire's pointed pen--or woe! far worse.
Committee's rage--or jury's grave debate
On the grand question "shall their lives" forsooth
"Or property--or both --atone their crimes?"
Who'd bear all these calamities? And more
We justly may expect, while Shelburne's horse
Invites us to decide the case ourselves.
And sooth our cares in that harmonious name:
But that the fear of woes, in distant climes,
(By conscience heightened to enormous size)
Makes us, like cowards, bear those ills we know,
Rather than hazard others and our friends
(For numerous friends we boast--the united
Band of lawyers to a man) kindly engage
To turn the edge of whigs restrictive laws.
And reinstate us in our native soil.
O! 'tis a kindness that we wish devoutly.
And well deserves our thanks with half our worth.
But is it in their power? When they harangue
Will whigs forget we long have been their foes,
And guide their verdict by a lawyer's tongue?
Perish that hope! They serve us for our gold.
Their friendship and their virtue put to sale,
Pay but their price--they'll hang us every one.
Then what Our fate, when those cerberian whigs
Those men with Argus eyes, Brutus and Civis,
Publicus and thousands more (their real names
Whoever asks may to their sorrow find)
Will sound th' alarm, and those men of gold
Tho' brib'd with half our wealth:--that once got.
They leave us--nor will plead (or faintly plead)
Our desperate cause against the warm resentment
Of men resolved to drive us from their land.
Then let us fly---nor trust a war of words
Where British arms and Tory arts have fail'd
T' effect. At our purpose. ..Oh bleak Nova Scotia's shores
Let's lose our fears--for no bold whig will dare
With sword or law, to persecute us there.