1794 10

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1794.10
Song
The REPUBLICANS to the DEVIL.
Anon
The Gentleman's Magazine, LXIV (June 1794), p. 558
The Gentleman's and London Magazine (July 1794), pp. 386-387

Tune, "To Anacreon in Heaven."

To Satan in Hell, where he sat on his Throne,
    A few Rebels from Britain preferr'd their petition,
That he for his friends would Republicans own,
    And proclaim them, his fav'rite sons of sedition;
            For this was their aim,
            Wherever they came,
    To set all in confusion, the world in a flame:
And they begg'd he'd instruct them now best to convey
Wealth, Glory, and Freedom, from Britain away.

My friends, Satan cries, you are welcome to hell:
    'Tis a jubilee here when the world is in trouble;
Each Daemon rejoices when people rebel,
    But, when a King bleeds, their triumph is double.
            Hark, Paris does ring,
            Ca Ira[1] they sing;
    Like them, dip your hands in the blood of your King:
Go join the Convention, you'll quickly convey
Wealth, Glory, and Freedom, from Britain away.

Great Sir, they replied, we approve of your plan,
    Each virtue we'll banish, each truth we'll disown;
France, in her fury, we'll join hand in hand,
    Hurl our God from his temple, the King from his throne:
            Then back let us fly,
            In transports of joy,
    When our Sans-Culottes friends shall to help us
                draw nigh.
We'll join the Convention, and quickly convey
Wealth, Glory, and Freedom, from Britain away.

Then Neptune rose on Britain's fair strand,
    And declar'd to repulse them, he'd readily join;
Whilst York and his Heroes defend them by land,
    The conquest at sea shall be Howe's and be mine.
            Then let them draw near,
            It soon will appear,
    That Britons for ever are strangers to fear.
They'll soon trim those rascals, who hope to convey
Wealth, Glory, and Freedom, from Britain away.

Stern Justice cry'd out, Your plan, my friends, alter;
    Your arms never stain with so wretched a foe;
Tis mine to dispatch them; then, shewing a halter,
    Cried Inevitabilis Restis,[2] you know.
            O'er each rebel's head
            My halter I'll spread,
    And my sons from their fury no danger shall dread.
Whilst a rope holds each rascal, who strives to convey
Wealth, Glory, and Freedom, from Britain away.

Then Britons arise, and, without more delay,
    Let each Loyal Soul put his hand to his glass,
Here's The KING—may God bless him; Amen, Boys, Huzza—
    Huzza Boys—Again; with three cheers let it pass.
            Whilst thus we agree,
            Let our song ever be,
    May Britons be Loyal, United, and Free:
May a rope hold each rascal, who strives to convey
Wealth, Glory, and Freedom, from Britain away.