%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> PANEGYRICK On Robert Cowan's Trip to the Tron, who should have been ex- / posed there, with his Ditty on his Breast, Wednesday 22d, January 1724, by Sentence / of the Senators of the College of Justice, for defrauding his Creditors of vast Sums. / Ad pulchrem est digito, monstrare & dicitur hic est. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1724-1724 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 07/15/2014 34329

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T170334 WHat Moonshine or Trade-wind hath blown thee here, / Loadstone of Trade, why did the Skipper Stear Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 97 PANEGYRICK On Robert Cowan's Trip to the Tron, who should have been ex- / posed there, with his Ditty on his Breast, Wednesday 22d, January 1724, by Sentence / of the Senators of the College of Justice, for defrauding his Creditors of vast Sums. / Ad pulchrem est digito, monstrare & dicitur hic est. PANEGYRIC On Robert Cowan's Trip to the Tron, who should have been exposed there, with his Ditty on his Breast, Wednesday 22d, January 1724, by Sentence of the Senators of the College of Justice, for defrauding his Creditors of vast Sums. Ad pulchrem est digito, monstrare & dicitur hic est. 1724-1724

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol Americas animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family Featured folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious groups royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 7/15/2014 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America crime economics/ commerce maritime trickery/ deceit Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 7/15/2014 2:33:04 PM XBallad Chow, Jeremy Created XML Version of Ballad 7/15/2014 2:33:04 PM Transcription Supervisor Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/15/2014 2:33:04 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/15/2014 2:33:04 PM Transcriptionist Two Gieringer, Darby Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/15/2014 2:33:04 PM Transcriptionist One Collins, Courtney Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/24/2014 Checker Erik Bell Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 2/10/2014 Checker Jeremy Chow Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 1/16/2013 Bibliographer Shannon Meyer Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created
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WHat Moonshine or Trade-wind hath blown thee here, Loadstone of Trade, why did the Skipper Stear Thy Vessel for to Harbour at this Tree, And sailing down our Coasts cry Helmalee, Did he mistake his Compas very far, Thinking our Cock-stool was the pollur-star, And brought thee for to Anchor at this Port, Beneath the Shelter of the Maiden Fort, Writing in Capitals upon thy Stern, Here stands etcetera, that all may learn, The Cargo is return'd by his deep Skill, And that thou art a standing Merchant still, Around thy awfull Throne, the Coasters croud, Where thou in querpo stands by thousands View'd, Whilst a Dutch Vessel for the Indies Bound, Carrying 700 Tun is run a Ground, Her Main-mast bruisd, and floating in the Sea, But thou brave Man supports that usefull Tree, Within thy Iron Barge, thou stands Erect, Safe with the Souldiery around the Deck, Pelted with Hand Grenads thou'rt firm as Steel, And doth not hide thy self within the Keel. The Western Wind that regularly Blows, Knows the Sea Tides, and how she ebbs and flows, Made the with success on his Billows Ride, Tho' some alledge ye'r now at a Neep Tide, As if that Eolus stood at thy beck Nothing except thy Conscience went to Wreck, At Anchor riding, flory in your Mark, Painted upon your Stern, the Bankrupt Bark, Tho' punny sneaking Traders on the Brime, Upbraid thee as a Pyrate for a Crime, And cursing cry, behold the Smugler there, Who enter'd all his Goods the Lord knows where, Mad Words to keep a free Born Soul in awe, For these who follow Nature, Laugh at Law, How doth the Squirel pillage all the Nuts, Hoord large Treasures for its little Guts, Such Wisdom is in the weak Rabbit found, It digs its Vaults and Store house in the Ground, So Salmon when they've fed on little Fish, Are Fat and full with many a sttollen Dish: Run to their Native Shores, and quites the Main, And when they've spawn'd, they do return again. Merchants should be like Solomons wise Ants, To filch in Summer for the Winters Wants, These winged Insects Lecture to the Saints. Philosophers conclude with learned Skill, The tim'rous Hare pursu'd makes up the Hill, Because her hinder Legs are very long, But her fore ones are short and very Strong. So what a Merchants Hands doth safe convey, For that his Legs were made to run away: Observe the Water Duck pursu'd by Dogs, (As many honest Bankrupt is by Rogues) Immerges in the Pool to hide it's Head, Until the clam'rous Dogs believes its dead, And when the Dangers over it doth Swime, Above the surface of the Silver Stream. How proudly do you Stand in that fair Spot, Thinking your Signature a 10 pound Note, Flown from it's Breth'ren in the Letter Case, To deck thy Breast, and gaze upon thy Face, See how all ranks are swarming to the street, As if they were to view th' East india Fleet.
But when you turn your Eyes on the Black-Lords Like Devils or Yunkos handling of the Cords, And Jrbn Dalgliesh the Captain of the Ship, Doth gravely to the Supercargo Trip, Then he concludrs, that all your Plots are fail'd. And they're preparing to have you Keel-hail'd; Don't hang an Arse, your toils are overpast, And thou art now an Alter at the Mast. As these of old whom holy fervor seiz'd, Infants new Born to Moloch sacrific'd Passing thro' Flames to pacify his Wrath, And strove t'appease his Ire' with Childrens Death. So thou, thro' Guards and Crouds in Triumph trode To sacrifice to Mammon, thy Pa-god. Amongst the Romans Men of deathless frame, Who conquer'd bravely in the' Olimpick Game, Did in their Annalls Shine, and were decreed, To've Wreaths of Olives twisted round their head, So you, who far excel all Men in Trade, Are thro' our Capital with glory led. Thy lovely Bombrief written on thy Breast, Which doth thy high immoral Fates attest. Great Soul, how you dispise the shocks of [?] The vulgars Clamour, and the great ones hate, The jangling Lawyers with their harsh Term Dolus, (Dang'rous and bitter as a Doctor's Bollus) Contriv'd to bring thee to a triple Tree, But faill'd, and basely blunder'd in the Plea, Nobly was you acquit, that all may know it, You've brough a Large Testificat to show it. Fraud'lent Bankrupt is an Epithet, That rais'd thee to this high exalted Seat, Fraud Pious monnasylable has gain'd, What Honesty would never have attain'd. How many honest Men, that meet with loss, Do Skulk in Cog. and dare not see the Cross, Conscience, and Honesty's not worth Snuff. Beggarly Things they are not Caption Proof, But Fraud hath rais'd thee 'bove the Rank of Lairds, To have thy Liv'ry Man and armed Guards. Thou Glasgow Whale, couldst never yet abide, The stubborn Finny Fry that Swime in Clyde, You soon smell'd their Provisions with your Nose, And left them starving on the naked Oars, South Sea Directors in their Trade Stock-jobing. Were not more Crafty in their Art of Robbing: Go on to great Cowan, and triumphant Ride, To thy own Native Soul, the Banks of Clyde, And when in solemn Pomp, you mount the Tron, Believe that you ascend the Royal throne, And all your faithful Subjects looking on. Don't head the impious Mob, who'll pass this jest, You've Mene Tekel Written on your Breast. Whilst he liv'd here, his Wares were never right And now he's Weigh'd himself, and is found Light, But when the Show is over then behold, Your secret Treasures and your Chests of Gold, Say to them, O my gods I hither haste To be rewarded for my Labours past. I have escaped from th' Enemies Hands, and now, With lowly rev'rance to my gods I bow, Papists may be afraid, but I am bold, They have a god of Bread, but all my gods are Gold.
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