About the author
Frank Moore was a journalist and Revolutionary historian. He published a number of books on the American Revolution during his career in the mid-19th century, including Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution, Diary of the American Revolution and The Patriot Preachers of the American Revolution.
This parody, upon the preceding song (The World Turned Upside Down), was first published in the Boston Gazette, on the twenty-sixth of September, 1768, with the subjoined brief notice. “Last Tuesday, the following song made its appearance from a garret at Castle William.” The author is unknown.
The Parody
COME shake your dull noddles, ye pumpkins, and bawl, And own that you’re mad at fair Liberty’s call;
No scandalous conduct can add to your shame, Condemn’d to dishonor, inherit the same.
In folly you’re born, and in folly you’ll live,
To madness still ready, And stupidly steady,
Not as men, but as monkeys, the tokens you give.
Your grandsire, old Satan, now give him a cheer,
Would act like yourselves, and as wildly would steer:
So great an example in prospect still keep,
Whilst you are alive, Old Belza may sleep.
Such villains, such rascals, all dangers despise,
And stick not at mobbing when mischief’s the prize; They burst thro’ all barriers, and piously keep
Such chattels and goods the vile rascals can sweep.
The Tree, which the wisdom of justice hath rear’d, Should be stout for their use, and by no means be spar’d:
When fuddled with rum the mad sots to restrain,
Sure Tyburn will sober the wretches again.
Your brats and your hunters by no means forget,
But feather your nests, for they’re bare enough yet;
From the insolent rich sure the poor knave may steal, Who ne’er in his life knew the scent of a meal.
When in your own cellars you’ve quaff’d a regale,
Then drive, tug and -, the next house to assail;
For short is your harvest, nor long shall you know
The pleasure of reaping what other men sow.
Then plunder, my lads, for when red coats appear,
You’ll melt like the locust when winter is near;
Gold vainly will glow, silver vainly will shine,
But, faith, you must skulk, you no more shall purloin.
Then nod your poor numskulls, ye pumpkins, and bawl, The de’il take such rascals, fools, whoresons and all; your cursèd old trade of purloining must cease,
The dread and the curse of all order and peace.
All ages shall speak with contempt and amaze,
Of the vilest banditti that swarm’d in these days;
In defiance of halters, of whips and of chains,
The rogues would run riot, – fools for their pains.
Gulp down your last dram, for the gallows now groans,
And, over depress’d, her lost empire bemoans;
While we quite transported and happy shall be,
From mobs, knaves and villains, protected and free.
