What stupid creatures are the French,
Quite free from superstition;
Yet when they die, 'tis hard to say,
What can be their condition?
Of Heaven they entertain no thought,
Since it can no way fit them;
And as for Hell, the despot there
Has more sense than admit them.
If then for Hell they have no chance,
And to Heav'n have no pretension;
Some other dwelling must be found,
To lodge the French Convention.
Or, as their new philosophy
Has laid the fine foundation,
Their only prospect now must be
A blest annihilation.
How must these miscreant wretches move
Our anger, or our laughter,
Who wish to live like monsters here,
And nothing be hereafter!
Preserve us, Reason, taught by Grace,
From reveries so beastly;
By whomsoever set afloat,
By Price, or Payne, or Priestly.
May Britons thankful still, and wise,
Beware of Gallic leaven;
So we need have no fear of Hell,
And grace will give us Heaven.