BRITISH JUSTICE;

Come, all ye Britons who delight In Freedom's sacred cause, And boast the Triumphs of your Sires, Of just and equal laws, Wrung from a Despot's feeble grasp, List to this tale of mine, In baseness which you cannot peer, Since the days o' Lang Syne. To fam'd Newcastle's Secret Court A poor unlucky wight Was, for the sake of Bastardy, But very lately brought: Where, tortur'd most ingeniously, The rogue was made to whine, As few have been for sporting so, Since the days of Lang Syne. In vain the culprit urg'd his cause, In eloquence of woe; In vain he urg'd his poverty, To save him from the blow: Regardless of his just complaint, His judges laid the fine, So great as few poor dogs could pay, Since the days of Lang Syne. Now mark the justice of the Judge, Precisely at the time— A gentleman was brought to him, Just for the self same crime; To whom the Judge, in alter'd tone, Begg'd he would not repine, Such ills are common to the rich, Since the days of Lang Syne. Suffice it, these two sinners were, Tho' in the same degree Of guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay, The ratio one to three: The man of rags was made to pay Three times a greater fine; And sunk in misery, sent to think On the days of Lang Syne. Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens'd, Your boasted freedom's gone, Laid in your predecessors' graves, Or from the island flown: No longer Justice holds her seat, In majesty divine, In British Courts presiding now, As in days of Lang Syne. In vain you strive to wander back To times of peaceful joy, In vain you hope times to recall, Lost in eternity; No, never shall those scenes return, No more shall Britain shine, As she was wont, so splendidly, I' the days of Lang Syne. Can then Eternal Justice sleep, Regardless of the prayer Of toiling millions sunk in debt, And driven to despair, By stern Oppression's iron hand, Oh! no, the Power Divine Shall plead our cause as heretofore, In the days of Lang Syne.