Who do we have here but our dearest friend, Mr. Ebenezer Cooke.

Gather 'round peasants and hear his ode:

Condemn'd by Fate to way-ward Curse,
Of Friends unkind, and empty Purse:
Plagues worse than fill'd Pandora's Box,
I took my leave of Albion's Rocks:
With heavy heart, concern'd that I
Was forc'd my Native soil to fly.
And the Old World must bid good-buy.
But Heav'n ordain'd it should be so.
And to repine is vain we know:
Freighted with Fools, from Plymouth sound,
To Mary-Land our ship was bound.
Where we arriv'd in dreadful Pain,
Shock'd by the Terrours of the Main:
For full three Months, our wavering Boat.
Did thro' the surley Ocean float.
And furious storms and threat'ning Blasts,
Both tore our Sails and sprung our Masts:
Wearied, yet pleased, we did escape
Such ills, we anchor'd at the Cape.
But weighing soon, we plough'd the Bay,
To Cove it in Piscato-way,
Intending there to open Store
I put myself and Goods a-shore:
Where soon repair'd a numerous Crew,
In Shirts and Drawers of Scotch-cloth Blue.
With neither Stockings, Hat, nor Shooe.
These Sot-weed Planters Crowd the Shoar,
In Hue as tawny as a Moor:
Figures so strange, no God design'd,
To be a part of Humane Kind:
But wanton Nature, void of Rest,
Moulded the brittle Clay in Jest.
At last a Fancy ver odd
Took me. this was the Land of Nod.
Planted at first, when Vagrant Cain,
His Brother had unjustly slain:
then conscious of the Crime he'd done,
From Vengeance dire, he hither run;
And in a Hat supinely dwelt,
The first in Furs and Sot-weed dealt.
And ever since his Time, the Place,
Has harbour'd a detested Race;
Who when they cou'd not live at Home,
For Refuge to these Worlds did roam;
In hopes by Flight they might prevent,
The Devil and his fell intent;… (The Sotweed Factor)

—Ebenezer Cooke (1667-1732)

 Always a pleasure, Mr. Cooke.