A POEM
to the
Memory of our late lamented
QUEEN CAROLINE
of
ENGLAND.

BY J. PARKERSON, JUN.

PRICE

NORWICH:
Printed, by r. Walker, near the Duke’s Palace

A POEM
to the memory of our late lamented
Queen Caroline.

As a Briton, this tribute I pay to my Queen,
Who late fell a martyr to malice and spleen;
To add to her sorrows in this fleeting life,
Misfortune had made her a young widow’d wife.
England saw Brunswick’s daughter surrounded by foes;
And, therefore determin’d their arts to oppose.
Corruption those minions so much can increase,
As to play with our feelings and injure our peace.
The vilest of reptiles oft jewels display;
You may see them at courts and at levees each day:
Lord D--- and his lady, not many years since,
Unblushingly perjured themselves for a ---:
Their conduct was such as rous’d England’s spleen,
That after her trial they dare not be seen;
May remorse and disgrace so harrass each breast,
As during existance divest them of rest;
Till despis’d and dishonour’d they yield to a fate
That justly awaits the entitled ingrate.
Scarce the delicate business had pass’d a short day,
Ere my lord and my lady took themselves away
From England’s old comforts and England’s lov’d shore;
For they dare not by Britons be seen any more.
The hired Italians’ could tell if they please,
They liv’y by base lucre many years at their ease.

They were fed for a purpose each Briton well know;
Yet Perjury’s efforts late met a death blow;
So effectual, I hope, she will ne’er try again,
To injure the just, or to give any pain.
To the innocent bosom unsconscious of blame—
A very late trial brought on Briton’s shame.
I mean to such Britons who try’d to run down,
Our much injured Queen, late depriv’d of the crown;
For reasons too plain, and known very well:
I dare say, the court at St. James’s can tell.
May the time soon approach that each freeman can say,
My rights as a freeman I’ll not throw away;
For I find that the great ones so impoverish the nation,
It is time they are taken away from their station;
They at present so manage, to our sorrow and grief:
They feed us with hopes, yet with-hold us relief;
A reform in all matters, and not things by halves,
For England is pawn’d while she fattens her calves;
The good funded system will plain show you how
They can raise a supply, tho’ it injure the plough.
To such a degree that it must remain still;
What matters to them so there’s grist in the mill
’Tis just like a merchant on a dull market day,
That will purchase your corn tho’ he can’t for it pay;
Except he resort to a mortgaging plan,
Which is certain at all times to ruin the man;
Then a bankruptcy follows and nothing to pay,
For extravagance makes all his assets away.
Such is the case you may