A New Song
The Cambridge Intelligencer (October 4, 1794)
[It has been suggested that there is more Truth than Wit in the following Song. The justice of this suggestion, we leave to our Readers to determine.]
Sure, Master JOHN BULL, I shan't know till I'm dead,
Where the devil you're driving to, a—e over head!
Troth, I've watch'd you, my dear, day and night, like a cat;
And, bad luck to myself, if I know what you're at.
But, the reason you waste all this blood, and this gold,
Is a secret, they say—that can never be told:
To be sure, for such secrets my tongue isn't fit;
For I can't keep it still, without speaking a bit.