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“ News! neighbours, news!”-Old Song.


For certainty knowing
Political systems are rotten,

Have, with infinite pains,

Been confounding my brains,
With economy, logic, and cotton.

That man's a machine,

Will be presently seen, When I've fully develop'd each measure ;

And my system requires,

That I move the wires, That the puppet may dance at my pleasure.

Like Noah in his ark,

I am king of Lanark !
My subjects due deference pay me;

You'll find in the sequel,

They're perfectly equal;— That's equally bound to obey me!

The wise of all ages,

Philosophers, sages, Dull rogues! must in turn go to school to me;

Aristotle and Plato

Are quite out of date O! And Zeno himself is a fool to me.

Locke, Newton, and Bacon,

I'll prove are mistaken,
Poor Malthus I'll down at a blow;

Landaff is mere chaff,

Hannah More is a bore, And Bob and his job all the go!

The Commons and Lords

I've so bother'd with words, That they vote me, to save time and patience,

Economist clever,

Extravagant never,
But in one simple thing-my orations !

The faith I maintain,

Is a spice of Tom Paine,
My politics too, where's the wonder ?

For argument specious,

I poach in Helvetius, Nor Hume quite escapes from my plunder.


Some have it, my style

Has a touch of Carlile, (Such lies choke the rogues that invent them !)

I own there's a touch,

When I mystify much,
Of my honest old friend, Jerry Bentham!

I deny there's a devil,

Heav'n, or hell; good, or evil; The doctrine of priests, I cut short all;

'Tis a farce of the schools,

That a Providence rules,
That the soul is sublime and immortal.

That a glorified Being,

All-mighty, all-seeing,
Of infinite pow'r and dominion,

Call'd the stars into birth,

Form'd from chaos, the earth, I'm quite of a diff'rent opinion.

But chance, at a jerk,

Did the wonderful work,
And atoms, combining, concussing,

Toss’d, tumbled, and twirl'd

Themselves into a world,
And then in a frolic, brought us in!

Where I'd have ev'ry man,

Just as long as he can,
For self, and for pelf, live and labour;

Then each mother's son,

When his dinner is done, Walk off, and make room for his neighbour.

The plan I lay down,

Is to build a small town, (Some wiseacres call it a riddle !)

In the shape of a square,

Parallelogram rare ! With an eating-house clapp'd in the middle !

Where intelligent cooks,

Who have studied my books, Their novel experiments trying;

Till my favourite plan,

To a sop in the pan, Rule the roasting, the broiling, the frying !

A bell in a steeple

Shall summons my people To join the community's table;

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