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To the Printer of the Public Advertiser.

Behold! What martial Bands are those,
Whose Look speaks Terror to their Foes?
They mount the Bark — they loose the Sail,
And o’er the wide Atlantic fly
With speed before the driving Gale,
While hostile Frowns deform their Eye.
What means this more than frantic Rage?
Is head-long Faction gone so far?
Can Fathers with their Sons engage,
And Britain on her Offspring war?
Stop, stop, rash Men, and timely learn to know
What dire Effects from Civil Discord flow.
Shall Gallia’s Sons exulting see
Intestine Broils our Peace destroy?
Or prouder Spain, with envious Glee,
By Faction’s Aid indulge her Joy?
Forbid it, thou Almighty Lord!
That filial Blood should ever stain
Britannia’s conquering Sword,
Or blot with foul Disgrace our Reign.
No more, my Sons, with plaintive Sounds,
Shall harshly strike my tortur’d Ear;
Hurt by Oppression’s galling Wounds,
Or drop in Grief the silent Tear:
Henceforth we’ll try, with lenient Hand,
Gently their fest’ring Sores to heal;
If gentle Sway and mild Command
May yet restore the public Weal.
Be lawless Rage restrain’d with chast’ning Hand,
But not Destruction dealt on all the Land.
Speak thus, Britannia’s gracious King,
And echoing Shouts thy Praises ring;
Whose loud Acclaim shall rend the Sky,
While rapid Winds shall waft the Sound
O’er the wide Main, and spread the Joy
Thy discontented Realms around:
Then shall thy froward Sons forbear
Their rash Resolves — their Bosoms burn,
With honest Shame they’ll drop the Tear,
And soft Affection soon return:
Calm Reason’s Voice shall then be heard,
All harsh and jarring Discord cease,
Misguided Rage no more be fear’d,
But hush to Harmony and Peace:
With fervent Zeal they then will raise
to gracious George Affection’s Voice;
With ardent Love resound his Praise,
And filial Gratitude rejoice.
With rapt’rous Hearts they’ll join the festive Day,
And joyful hail Great George’s natal Day.
Persuasive be the Muse, whose honest Aim
Would humbly point the Path to genuine Fame.