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Rh Whether, as once in “Peter Porcupine,”
 * You curse the country whose free air you breathe,

Or, as plain William Cobbett, toil to twine
 * Around your brows Sedition’s poisoned wreath,

Or, in your letter to Sir Francis, tear
 * All moral ties asunder with your pen,

We trace your gentle spirit everywhere,
 * And greet you prince of Slander’s scribbling men.

Well may our hearts with pride and pleasure swell,
 * To know that face to face we soon shall meet,

We’ll gaze upon you as you stand and sell
 * Grammars and Garden Seeds in Fulton Street!

And praise your book that tells about the weather,
 * Our laws, religion, hogs, and things, to boot,

Where your unequalled talents teach together
 * Turnips and “young ideas how to shoot.”

In recompense, that you’ve designed to make
 * Choice of our soil above all other lands,

A purse we’ll raise to pay your debts, and take
 * Your unsold Registers all off your hands.

For this, we ask that you, for once will show
 * Some gratitude—and, if you can, be civil;

Burn all your books, sell all your pigs, and go—
 * No matter where—to England, or the devil!

H.