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4 gArnet poems from M’Fingal “Brethren and friends, the glorious band Of loyalty in rebel land! It was not thus you’ve seen me sitting, Return’d in triumph from town-meeting; When blust’ring Whigs were put to stand, And votes obey’d my guiding hand, And new commissions pleased my eyes; Blest days, but ah, no more to rise! Alas, against my better light, And optics sure of second-sight, My stubborn soul, in error strong, Had faith in Hutchinson too long. See what brave trophies still we bring From all our battles for the king; And yet these plagues, now past before us, Are but our entering wedge of sorrows! “I see, in glooms tempestuous, stand The cloud impending o’er the land; That cloud, which still beyond their hopes Serves all our orators with tropes; Which, though from our own vapors fed, Shall point its thunders on our head! I see the Mob, beflipp’d at taverns, Hunt us, like wolves, through wilds and caverns! What dungeons open on our fears! What horsewhips whistle round our ears! Tar, yet in embryo in the pine, Shall run on Tories’ backs to shine; Trees, rooted fair in groves of sallows, Are growing for our future gallows; And geese unhatch’d, when pluck’d in fray, Shall rue the feathering of that day. “For me, before that fatal time, I mean to fly th’ accursed clime, And follow omens, which of late Have warn’d me of impending fate. “For late in visions of the night The gallows stood before my sight; 5 John trumBull I saw its ladder heaved on end; I saw the deadly rope descend, And in its noose, that wavering swang, Friend Malcolm hung, or seem’d to hang. How changed from him, who bold as lion, Stood Aid-de-camp to Gen’ral Tryon, Made rebels vanish once, like witches, And saved his life, but dropp’d his breeches. I scarce had made a fearful bow, And trembling asked him, “How d’ye do;” When lifting up his eyes so wide, His eyes alone, his hands were tied; With feeble voice, as spirits use, Now almost choak’d by gripe of noose; “Ah, fly my friend, he cried, escape, And keep yourself from this sad scrape; Enough you’ve talked and writ and plann’d; The Whigs have got the upper hand. Could mortal arm our fears have ended, This arm (and shook it) had defended. Wait not till things grow desperater, For hanging is no laughing matter. Adventure then no longer stay; But call your friends and haste away. ...

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