During the short time I recently passed in Nottingham, not twelve hours elapsed without some fresh act of violence; and on that day I left the the county I was informed that forty Frames had been broken the preceding evening, as usual, without resistance and without detection.

Such was the state of that county, and such I have reason to believe it to be at this moment. But whilst these outrages must be admitted to exist to an alarming extent, it cannot be denied that they have arisen from circumstances of the most unparalleled distress: the perseverance of these miserable men in their proceedings, tends to prove that nothing but absolute want could have driven a large, and once honest and industrious, body of the people, into the commission of excesses so hazardous to themselves, their families, and the community.

They were not ashamed to beg, but there was none to relieve them: their own means of subsistence were cut off, all other employment preoccupied; and their excesses, however to be deplored and condemned, can hardly be subject to surprise.

As the sword is the worst argument than can be used, so should it be the last. In this instance it has been the first; but providentially as yet only in the scabbard. The present measure will, indeed, pluck it from the sheath; yet had proper meetings been held in the earlier stages of these riots, had the grievances of these men and their masters (for they also had their grievances) been fairly weighed and justly examined, I do think that means might have been devised to restore these workmen to their avocations, and tranquillity to the country.

As the Liberty lads over the sea

Brought their freedom, and cheaply with blood,

So we, boys, we

Will die fighting, or live free,

And down with all kings by King Ludd!

When the web that we weave is complete,

And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,

We will fling the winding sheet

Over the despot at our feet,

And dye it deep in the gore he has poured.

Though black as his heart its hue,

Since his veins are corrupted to mud,

Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew

Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,

Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:

You have repaired Legitimacy's crutch,

A prop not quite so certain as before:

The Spaniard, and the French, as well as Dutch,

Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore:

And Waterloo has made the world your debtor

(I wish your bards would sing it rather better).

You are 'the best of cut-throats': - do not start;

The phrase is Shakespeare's, and not misapplied;

War's a brain-spattering, wind-pipe-slitting art,

Unless her cause by right be sanctified.

If you have acted once a generous part,

The world, not the world's masters, will decide,

And I shall be delighted to learn who,

Save you and yours, have gained by Waterloo?

I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate

Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,

And send the sentinel before your gate

A slice or two from your luxurious meals:

He fought, but has not fed so well of late.

Some hunger, too, they say the people feels: -

There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,

But pray give back a little to the nation.

Never had mortal man had such opportunity

Except Napoleon, or abused it more:

You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity

Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:

And now - what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?

Now - that the rabble's first vain shouts are over?

Go! hear it in your famished country's cries!

Behold the world! and curse your victories!