Spite of the glosses of a canting Priest,
Who talks of Charity, but means a feast,
Who recommends it (whilst he seems to feel
The holy glowings of a real zeal)
To all his hearers, as a deed of worth,
To give them heav'n, whom they have robb'd of earth,
Never shall One, One truly honest man,
Who, blest with LIBERTY, reveres her plan,
Allow one moment, that a Savage sire
Could from his wretched race, for childish hire,
By a wild grant, their All, their Freedom pass,
And sell his Country for a bit of glass.