University of Virginia Library


13

THE BELGICK WAR-WHOOP,

AN ODE TO HOLLANDERS, WRITTEN 1800.

CLUMP-headed Dutchmen, why are you so stupid?
Rouse from your languor, guillotine your tyrants,
Drive democrats and sans culottes fraternal
All to the devil!
Fight as you did when William Prince of Orange
Nobly withstood the cruel Duke of Alva,
Heading a band of unrelenting Spaniards,
Fiercer than hell-hounds!
Fight as you would against a gang of pirates,
Led by some noted Algerine marauder;

14

Fight as you would if Beelzebub himself were
Broke loose upon you.
While you are lull'd with siren songs of freedom,
See you not Frenchmen riveting your shackles?
Rouse! or you soon must cease to be a nation:
Die then, or conquer!
Or, if the tigers of the fell republick
Cannot be forc'd without the Belgick borders,
Bid ocean merge your evil-fated country
All under water!

19

THE BEAUTIFUL MANIACK

NOW Night's sullen Noon spreads her mantle around,
And menacing thunders roll solemn in air,
Amanda's sad accents the woodlands resound,
Dark mountains re-echo these plaints of despair.
“See how the gloom deepens, the rude tempest roars,
“And loud the rough North-wind howls through the expanse,
“Old Ocean, hoarse murmuring, lashes the shores,
“While phantoms of night o'er the wild desert dance.
“The prominent cliff, that impends o'er the flood
“Responds to the ominous scream of the owl;

20

“Crim wolves rave infuriate through the dark wood,
“Their orgies nocturnal discordantly howl;!
“Here, pensively straying, I'll climb the tall steep,
“While Night's leaden sceptre bids nature repose,
“From the brow of the precipice plunge in the deep,
“And thus put an end to my numberless woes.
“In the gay morn of life surely none was more blest,
“To the blithe song of pleasure I danc'd o'er the green,
“Of innocence, beauty, and fortune possest,
“While sportive festivity hail'd me her queen.
“To solace my parents my pleasing employ,
“Their life's rugged passage with flow'rets to strow,
“Amanda their hope, and Amanda their joy.
“Her happiness all that they wish'd for below.

21

“Thus fifteen fair summers roll'd swiftly away,
“Ere man, base deceiver, to ruin me strove,
“Ere Cleon, deceitful, but witty and gay,
“First melted my heart to the raptures of love.
“Spring, sweetly luxuriant, deck'd the gay lawn,
“The dew-drop, nectareous, bespangled the grove,
“When Cleon first met me, one beautiful morn,
“With trembling solicitude whisper'd his love.
“His person was graceful, his manners refin'd,
“A pupil of Chesterfield, easy and free;
“But night's darkest gloom not so dark as his mind,
“Not half so deceitful yon treacherous sea.
“With eyes beaming rapture he swore to be true;
“Can cruelty dwell with a cherub so fair?
“Would you make me unhappy who live but for you,
“Ah! why should you drive a fond youth to despair?

22

“With fatal success were his stratagems piled
“To ruin a blooming and innocent maid;
“Full often he promis'd to make me his bride,
“Then, basely deserted the nymph he betray'd!
“The news to my parents convey'd sad surprise,
“Oppress'd with keen anguish they tore their grey hair,
“Till pitying death clos'd their sorrowing eyes,
“But left me behind them a prey to despair.
“Impell'd by rude Phrensy I wander'd from home,
“That home once delightful, where once I was blest,
“Now indigent, hopeless, distracted I roam,
“'Till Death's cold embrace full my sorrows to rest!
“But, ah! the wild horrours of madness return
“To rive every nerve in my tremulous frame,
“Forbear, my pain'd head, any longer to burn,
“Cease, anguishing heart, to enkindle the flame.

23

“Roar louder, ye winds! spread destruction around!
“Let thunders, loud bellowing, shake the firm pole,
“Let earthquakes impel e'en the shuddering ground,
“To mimick the passions which torture my soul!
“Ah, Cleon! thou false, thou perfidious swain,
“My spectre shall haunt thee in Night's silent gloom.”
She spake; then precipitant plung'd in the main,
And sought for repose in the cold watery tomb!

28

SONG.

TUNE “IN A MOULDERING CAVE.”

WHERE the hoar Alleghany towers over the clouds
Thy GENIUS, Columbia, reclin'd,
Her visage corroding anxiety shrouds,
And her locks wanton wild to the wind.
She weeps lest her sons should by fatal mischance,
Or jacobin phrensy be driven
To fraternize with infidel blood thirsty France,
And thus be abandon'd of heaven.
The ground was bedew'd with her fast falling tears—
When lo! through the wide opening sky,
On a bright cloud descending a SERAPH appears,
With a message of love from on high!

29

And thus he address'd the disconsolate dame:
“Your despondence and wailing give o'er,
For I am a ministering spirit of flame
Who guard blest Columbia's shore.
The storm of democracy soon will be past
And cloudless again be your skies,
The true sons of freedom distinguished at last
From those, who assume its disguise.
For those, who true liberty ever oppos'd,
And your Washington dar'd to revile,
In native deformity shall be disclos'd,
And no longer your freemen beguile.
Though Holland, Spain, Italy, Switzerland bend
To their falsely call'd freedom's control,
While no other freedom their tyrants intend
Than to tyrannise over the whole;—
Should Europe all how to dire jacobin sway,
To Columbians the charter was given
That tyrants is should never her freemen dismay,
And the franchise recorded in heaven.”

30

THE RUSTICK REVEL.

BUCK and beau, and belle and beldam,
Seems to me we dance but seldom,
Fopling spruce, and damsel taper,
All convene, and have a caper.
Not a dance we've had this long time;
But you tell me 'tis a wrong time,
That 'twas never hotter known
Even in Africk's torrid zone.
Hot enough to melt the devil;
Sure 'tis foolish then to revel.
Truce with preaching; take on paper,
Names of those who grace our caper;
See what lasses we can pick up
For our famous village kick up;
Manage matters with formality,
We'll have none except the QUALITY.

31

Put us down the squire and lawyer,
Nancy Tubbs, and Betty Sawyer;
Jenny Jinks is somewhat brown,
Joe, her brother, quite a clown:
True, but this one thing I'd speak on,
Their good father is a deacon.
And, if we should leave them out,
Pious deacon would, no doubt,
Beat it into many a thick-head
That our junketing is wicked;
Make in parish deal of rumpus,
People vex'd enough to thump us.
Lest we have a scanty ball
Put down married folks, and all.
Peter Grievous, and his black wife,
Though they both have had the jack-knife,
Still are rich, and cut a dash,
Put them down, for they have cash.

32

Dicky Dapper, lady's man,
Must be noted in our plan,
Though his brains won't fill a thimble,
Dicky Dapper dances nimble.
Betty Bilbo too, the heiress,
Though her homely phiz might scare us,
Many a lad would fain get round her,
For she is a thousand pounder.
Matters now adjusted right,
Let us dance this very night;
Send for Sambo with his fiddle,
Tiddle diddle, tiddle diddle.
Speak to landlord, and his lady,
Bid them make the ball room ready,
Stores of punch, of wine, and brandy,
Cake and cheese must all be handy;
Seize the moment ere it passes,
Lads send billets to your lasses;
Almost time we should begin it,
Tackle chaise in half a minute.
Polly, prettiest of a million,
Ride behind me on a pillion;

33

Powder'd beaus, and maccaronies,
Fops too proud to ride on ponies;
Lawyers grand, and judges bulky,
Ride with honey in a sulkey.
Now assembled at the hall,
Let us caper, one and all;
Squire, to top, I wish you'd trudge up,
Call a dance to ope the fudge up.
Lads and lasses take your places;
Holo, fiddler! play the “Graces!”
Right and left, chassé at top—
Wrong below there, stop! stop! stop!
Balance Dick, then down the middle,
Deuce is in that fellow's fiddle,
Sure Miss Airy dances topping,
Lighter than a cricket hopping;
Sally Squad, as round as pumpkin,
Capers cuts with Benny Bumpkin;
Balance Joe, to Lucy Wiggle,
Pho! you're wrong, all higgle-piggle!

34

Now you're right, and keep it going:
Tim, you dance like man a mowing,
Graceless as a colt a prancing,
Can't you stand up when your dancing?
Sammy Snider trots like thunder,
Sure he'll split the floor asunder:
See his partner pull and haul him,
Out of patience, I could maul him!
Well, the fam'd Egyptian camel
Dances mach like our friend Sam'el!
Now to aide-board let us hie,
Ne'er be bashful when you're dry;
Give each buxom, rosy maid,
Brimming glass of lemonade;
Help yourself to wine and porter,
Sit by lass, and strive to court her;
Sit and chat with amorous billing,
Rapture every bosom thrilling,
Eyes that dart electrick flashes,
“Hot hearts” almost burnt to ashes!
Never will I tell you lies, man,
But suppose some heathen wise man,

35

Most unfeeling wight in nature,
Even Zeno were spectator,
Stoick sure would swear meherc'le
'Tis a most seraphick circle!
Fill once more your cheerful glasses,
Drink a health to all sweet lasses,
Drink and frolick time away,
None so happy, none so gay,
Till, at length, the bill is bawl'd for,
And, alas! our money call'd for!
Yonder manager, by beckoning,
Seems to say, “come pay your reckoning;”
Murky phiz, and shrug of silence,
Speak a wish to be a mile hence!
Dick, who says he came away
Purse forgot, and cannot pay,
Tells the landlord how to cook it,
Whispers “thank you, sir, to book it!”
Fiddler, play us one tune more,
Just to end with reel of four,
Ralphy Rattle, spunky fellow,
Raking round till he is mellow,

36

Rudely muttering and swearing,
Seems to lack a little airing.
Misses, squires, and gentlefolks,
Call for Nabobs, hats, and cloaks;
True, 'tis late, but that's no matter,
All good night, 'tis time to scatter.
Come, my dear, and mount behind me,
Lover true you'll ever find me.
Stir up Dobbin Well, my dearest,
Uncle Jotham's road is nearest;
Now by fence we safely land,
Now we walk in, hand in hand.
Sit awhile in social chat—
Pray what follow'd after that?
Toy and prattle, sir, awhile,
Right New England courting style,
But you'll please to make the best on't,
I'm not bound to tell the rest on't.
 

In New England they have a custom of presenting a person who has an ugly appearance with a jack-knife. The donee, in such case, preserves the present till he can find some one whose ugly phiz, in his opinion, gives him a superiour claim to the favour.

A kind of gig or one-horse carriage, in which two sociable people may possibly be accommodated.

Nabobs were a kind of outside garment formerly worn by the dashing belles of America.


37

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

Scene.—VERMONT.

DESCRIPTION.

'TWAS early one morning, when Flora serene,
Spread over the meadows her carpet of green,
Not a murmur was heard, in the lawn or the grove,
While Simon and Sophy were singing of love.
They tun'd their two jewsharps to lays so refin'd,
Such melody floated on whispering wind,
That Battenkiln-river suspended his current,
And listen'd an hour and an half I dare warrant.

38

SIMON.

Yonder tiny insect ranging,
Flits about on filmy wing,
Fickle Sophy, ever changing,
Is exactly such a thing.
Were not Simon doom'd to love her,
Such is Cupid's odd decree,
Thrice the sense he would discover,
Forging setters for a flea.

SOPHY.

Simon, well I might compare ye,
Since you alter every hour,
To a humming-bird, so airy,
That is wooing every flower.
But I never will be fretting
For so volatile a chap,
Sure I might as well be setting
For a butterfly my cap.

39

SIMON.

Simon t'other day advancing,
Found Miss Sophy not so coy,
Then his heart, with rapture dancing,
Kindled to a feu-de-joye.
Then with little Cupid aiding,
Simon bounc'd into her arms;
Now her elbow barricading,
Guards her paradise of charms.

SOPHY.

Yes, and after all this rapture,
You must wait on Kitty Brag,
Kitty told me how you snapp'd her
When she offer'd you the bag.

40

Give me, likewise, leave to tell ye
What I saw the other day,
Simon at the feet of Nelly,
Whining at a sorry lay.

SIMON.

Oh, my Sophy! smile propitious,
And a ray of hope impart;
Nor, by conduct so capricious,
Drive a sled-stake through my heart.

SOPHY.

But the heart that's so affected
Is a hollow thing at best,
Emblem true I've long suspected,
Of an empty hornet's nest.

SIMON.

While I'm pining to a splinter,
Can my dear enjoy the sight,
With a heart as cold as winter,
In a bosom full as white?

41

SOPHY.

Go, to passion fall a martyr,
And tomorrow let me see,
Simon dangling by a garter
Hang on yonder white-oak tree.

SIMON.

Where yon ivy, oak-entwining
Overhangs the dimpled lake,
There I saw you once, reclining,
Mantled by the grove opaque.
Then you melted to my wishes,
And your love I well repaid
By two pretty wooden dishes,
And a sap-trough neatly made.

SOPHY.

Where yon grape-vine wanton winding
Twines a slender poplar-tree,
There a romping huzzy finding
You forgot your love for me.

42

But you kneel'd to one Miss Kitty,
And her true love did repay
By two earthen bowls, so pretty,
And a genteel wooden tray.

SIMON.

Tell me now, my pretty Sophy,
How that rakish fellow, Ned,
Ever boasting of the trophy,
Came by lady's garter red?
Sure it must have been a droll hit,
And the lad was lucky too;
Can you tell me how he stole it?
Did the thing belong to you?

SOPHY.

Gentle Simon cease your flouting,
Nor in wicked scandal deal.
Tricks we find each other out in,
Sure 'twere better to conceal.

43

Since we both have play'd the truant,
As to both is too well known,
I will rove no more if you won't,
But be ever your's alone.

SIMON.

Yonder hoary sky-capp'd mountain
Shall be seated in the lake,
Battenkiln shall seek its fountain,
Ere my Sophy I forsake.

SOPHY.

Trouts shall browse on highest spruces,
Otter-Creek shall turn to wine,
Nettles spring up flower-de-luces,
If I am not ever thine.
 

Quorum stupefactæ carmine lynces.

Requierunt flumina cursus.

Varium et mutabile semper Femina.

Donec gratus eram tibi,
Nec quisquam potior brachia candidæ
Cervici juvenis dabat
Persarum vigui rege beatior.

“To give the bag” is an expression common with the lower classes in New England, and indicates that Miss Delia will not honour Mr. Damon with her company in a tete-a-tete conversation.

Quid si prisca redit Venus, &c.

Name of a river in Vermont.

In other words, “Tecum vivere amem, tecum obcam libens.”


44

SIMON SPUNKEY'S POLITICAL PEPPER-POT.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

Simon attunes his harp, more pleasant
Than reed of bland Arcadia's peasant,
And chaunteth poetry, more prettily
Than bard of ancient Greece or Italy.
Then seeth sights, sublime and dreadful,
Which fill with horrour every heat full;
Sets sansculottes, arm'd cap-a-pe,
To force the nations to be free,
Who do ten times more mischief, latterly,
Than erst did Alarick, or Attila.
Now, having found his former track,
The poet, nimbly, trips it back
Over the Union courses rapid,
And squibs each jacobinick saphead.
Such flights poetick few can equal,
As is apparent in the sequel.
OLD Time, a persevering codger,
Like debtor dunn'd a nimble dodger,
Who, having scamper'd one inch by you,
Will never afterwards come nigh you—
Whose foretop one might hide a cat in,
Though bald behind as school-boy's latin—
Who never bates his usual jog,
Nor stops his steed, for oats nor grog—

45

Who never yet, by saint, nor sinner,
Was brib'd to stay till after dinner,
But Jehu-like, drives all this world round
More swift than top by truant twirl'd round—
Who lowers at love-sick, poetaster,
But puffs productions of a master;
Before whom Grandeur's gorgeous palaces
Melt like a dream's fantastick fallacies,
Now jogs the bard, with shag-bark elbow,
And aims, with lifted scythe, a fell blow
To level Simon's reputation,
Unless the poet scrawl narration,
A kind of Hudibrastick summary
Of politicks, and other flummery,
Of matters tragical and queer,
Which mark the annals of last year,
And with a congée, low and pleasant,
Wish people happy through the present.
Now, gentle reader, take the trouble
To mount my nag, he carries double,

46

I mean my Pegasus, so antick,
And bid him canter cross th' Atlantick;
While we, more close than bride and groom stick,
And ride like witches on a broomstick!
And first mad Gallia's coast we light on,
And then to Paris travel right on,
Where Discord makes infernal rout,
To see what Frenchmen are about.
Five tyrants, chosen from the mob,
Well known in every dirty job,
By nature meant to bore and hector ye,
Compose th' immaculate Directory:
What cruel wars these fellows carry on,
While Até blows the blasting clarion.
Behold their Corsican commander,
The modern would-be Alexander;
Like Death he marches in terrorem,
And almost drives the Alps before him!
Mantua surrenders, Wurmser's taken,
The German empire sadly shaken;
Striving to manage such a chap,
E'en mighty Charles meets dire mishap!

47

The emperour trembles on his throne,
And scarcely thinks his head his own;
But ruminates on sad affairs,
And makes his will, and says his prayers!
Now Frenchmen rob the Virgin Mary,
Stand not in awe of pope's tiara,
But bid Italia's peasants learn
The art to “turn and overturn;”
Excite, with vigour most surprising,
A rage for revolutionizing.
In numerous lying proclamations,
Now promise freedom to all nations;
Persuade the mob, by vast exertion,
True liberty is French coercion!
Now rob and plunder where they can,
To put in force the “rights of man.”
Build commonwealths, in twenty places
Founded on such substantial bases,
That I dare venture you a sous
They'll last, at least—a month or two!
Of many battles might we tell
On Rhine, on Sambre, and Moselle;

48

Of bloody skirmish, sad defeat,
Of Moreau's wonderful retreat;
But lest we should, by such procedure,
Your patience harass, gentle reader,
We'll bid our nag poetick prance
To view the interiour part of France,
And see, by mobocrat distracted,
The part of Satan over-acted!
State revolutions, every moon,
Secure dame Freedom's shadowy boon;
The wisest men the prisons haul'd in,
Armies by savage tyrants call'd in;
The constitution thus infringing,
Give stubborn patriots a singeing.
Of two directors, who were honest,
One banish'd is, the other non est;
And legislators, more than fifty,
That liberty might flourish thrifty,

49

Without defence, without a hearing,
Or any marks of guilt appearing,
Are sent, by Freedom's mild decree,
To end their days beyond the sea,
Or else, perhaps, a scuttled boat in
To stand a lousy chance for floating.
See sister Gallia make wry faces,
To lure American embraces;
By bulletins, arrets abusive,
Claims all our trade, by right exclusive,
More lawless than a drunken pirate
She storms and blusters at a high rate,
And imitating fierce Algiers,
Sends forth her hordes of privateers;
A cruel gang of fell marauders
Are fitted by Directors' orders,
To bid each unarm'd brig defiance,
And plunder vessels in alliance.

50

Now England lends her powerful aid,
A firm protection to our trade,
Belabours bucaniers with sad knocks,
And helps us out of many a bad box.
England, invincible at sea,
Before whom dons and monsieurs flee,
Has block'd up Cadiz, Brest, and so forth,
And dons and monsieurs dare not go forth;
And mynheers too, coop'd up in Texel,
With anger foam enough to vex hell,
But still the devil a bit of one can
Get by the English Admiral Duncan!
At length De Winter ventures out,
The coast is clear, he makes no doubt,
Thinks Duncan will not treat a man ill
Who calmly courses through the channel,
But soon the latter, overjoy'd
To find the Hollander decoy'd,
Pursues him like audacious eagle
In quest of plover, snipe, or sea-gull.
But now we such a fray get sight on,
Muse, bring the conch-shell of old Triton;

51

And, when the battle's well a going,
Just set the green-ey'd dog a blowing!
Bid Proteus charge with thirty-pounders,
Or head a cavalcade of flounders!
Thetis emerge from cave of chrystal,
And all indignant cock a pistol!
Let dame Dione, dainty dripping,
Make horrid clatter mid the shipping!
Neptune leave Mistress Amphitrite,
And join the battle hoity-toity!
Gods, flock from every point of compass,
And make a devil of a rumpus!!!
But stop, your merciless reviewers
Will spit the bard on Satire's skewers,
For introducing such machinery
To cumber his poetick scenery.
Avaunt, be all this pagan stuff,
And tell in English, plain enough,
How Duncan Dutchmen sadly treated,
Stout Admiral Winter's fleet defeated,
And captur'd vessels nine or ten,
And kill'd, God knows, how many men!

52

Full many a Dutchman took a notion
To try a voyage beneath the ocean,
Where Captain Death his flag unfurl'd,
And anchor'd him in t'other world!
Behold the famous Admiral Jervis
Has Spaniards much at suit and service,
Scatters their fleet like grass on hay-days,
And takes their Santa Trinidadas.
'Tis true, not many could he win since
He was created Lord St. Vincent's,
For Spaniard thinks his fortune made is
If he secure himself in Cadiz,
And force, nor art can ever make him,
His Lordship, give a chance to take him.
We might come back to England's shore,
To ken the mutiny at Nore;
Might notice British tars defection,
And Parker, heading insurrection,—
How Faction's hobby-horse first flung him,
And then administration hung him;
Might trouble you with long narration
Of Billy Pitt's administration;

53

Might talk of Bank of England falling,
Of Fox, so eloquent at railing;
But, gentle reader, we've no leisure
To tell you all these tales in measure:
Besides, you know, we have to rhyme for't,
'Twill, therefore, take too long a time for't;
Besides the wear of poet's brains,
Without a penny for his pains.
From Europe turn, my bounding Pegasus,
Where fighting fellows make a plaguy fuss,
To blithe Columbia's peaceful shores,
Where no rude din of battle roars,
Where Plenty fills her wicker basket,
And Wealth unlocks his golden casket,
Health strings the nerve of sturdy farmer,
And tints the cheek of ruddy charmer,
Where once was nought but desert, howling,
And swamps, scarce fit to pasture owl in,
Where meagre Famine often drill'd us,
Where Indians tomahawk'd, and kill'd us,
We quaff the bumper, smoke çigar,
Nor heed the howl of Indian war.

54

Where lately were but two or three men,
Are many hardy bands of freemen,
Where hemlocks grew of monstrous size,
Towns, VILLAS, CITIES, EMPIRES RISE!
Though Providence our patience tries
With Jacobins, and Hessian flies,
Though Death, fell arm'd with horrid cleaver,
Depopulates with yellow fever,
Still not one nation out of seven
Is favour'd half so much by heaven.
Thanks to our stars, seditious plans
Of democratick partisans
Have hitherto been all defeated,
And Faction's hydra form, retreated,
Feebly emits discordant yell
From Bache and Greenleaf's dirty cell;
Apollo views, with honest pride,
His favourites all on federal side,

55

And swears no antifederal noddy
Has half a soul to bless his body.
Though Franklin Bache, I'll bet a bowl,
Once own'd a puny factious soul;
Yet lack-a-day, who would have thought it!
Alas! alas! the French have bought it!
Another way, both arch and funny,
This younker has for making money,
If true it be, and many say 'tis,
He's paid, by France, for printing gratis.
What he receives I cannot tell,
But this is true, I know full well,
A cent a ream for half his lies
Would make him rich before he dies!

56

In Boston garrets, cellars, by-shops,
Full many a smirch'd seditious Cyclops,
Is forging lies for Chronicleers,
While Justice clamours for his ears.
But why of Jacobins complaining,
Their numbers and their strength are waning;
How fast these ragamuffins dwindle,
None dare sedition's faggot kindle,
Except imported desperadoes,
Bog-trotters, noted for bravadoes;
And vagabonds not worth a stiver,
With many a southern negro driver,
Who should, methinks, be plac'd in one row,
With Swanwick, Gallatin, and Monroe,
And these fine fellows should be led,
By Lyon, sturdy antifed,
Who ought to howl with broken head,
As we conceive, with great humility,
For lack of common-place civility.

57

When our first magistrate was chosen,
The French were anxious to impose one,
In Faction's synod was a grand debate,
And J---n propos'd a candidate,
Long visag'd Jucos, spruce Adets,
Gaunt Discord's cohort of cadets
Are marshall'd under French protection,
In aid of J---'s election;
But vain the efforts of these fellows,
In vain each demo spouts and bellows,
Urges to please dame France, our sister,
'Till throat and lungs are all a blister,

58

And swears we ought to be unanimous,
To worship allies so magnanimous,
Because they made a deal of fuss
To help themselves, by helping us,
That this our continent should be tender'd,
For services the French have render'd,
That J---n's the very man,
To give effect to such a plan,
In vain, I say, is all this racket,
With now and then a bribe to back it,
The MAN, whom sages most revere,
Whose name admits of no compeer—
The MAN, who has been faithful found,
His country's friend when Fortune frown'd—
The MAN, who spite of Gallia's art,
Is thron'd in every federal heart—
The MAN, who justly may look down
On paltry things, who wear a crown,
Presiding o'er a happy nation,
Adorns his elevated station.

59

The timid muse dares not relate
Each wise congressional debate,
How every auditor so sad is
When braggart Swiss, and Irish paddies,
With pride and nonsense, overweening,
Absurdly blunder round their meaning;—
Fellows, who have conspir'd to level,
With that arch democrat, the devil,
Tear up the pillars of society,
Pull down the fabrick of propriety,
Give meek-ey'd Piety a flogging,
And send Morality a jogging;
Fellows, who sped away, betimes
To seek a refuge from their crimes;
Who, if transported back to Europe,
Each hangman there would lack a new rope.
I say it is not my intention
One word about those folks to mention,

60

Lest Gunn, so fierce, or Blount, so cruel,
The poet challenge to a duel!
Full many fine things might be written
Of Blount's deep plot to join with Britain,
And bid the Spaniards rue the sorry day
When he should force them out of Florida.
But then, perhaps, 'twould be a pity
To interfere with our committee,
Who put in motion wheel and pulley,
Resolv'd to trace the matter fully;
And in due time will give a history
Of this dire democratick mystery.

61

We will not stop to state the bickering,
'Twixt foppish Yrujo, manly Pickering;
Nor tell how Yrujo, all forlorn,
Crept through the small end of the horn:
For this, with many such like capers,
Will cut a dash in Hartford papers;
For Hartford wits these things can burnish
In brighter lays than I can furnish.
My muse is under contribution,
To sing the frigate Constitution:
Lest, this our pithy ode be lost on
Commercial wits, and tars of Boston.
Bostonians built a stately frigate,
And undertook to man and rig it.

62

Which set Sedition's sons a scowling,
And madden'd jacobins to howling.
This 'foresaid frigate, on a day
Appointed, was to glide away
To hoary Ocean's oozy bed
With Neptune, then and there to wed.
The day arriv'd at length, when lo!
Miss Constitution would not go:
How jacobinick sinners scoff,
Because she fails to travel off!
They swore she was prophetick wench,
And foresaw trouble from the French,
If she to federal folly kept tune,
And sought the arms of master Neptune.
At length, in merry mood, she went in,
And floats her natural element in:
O may she ever triumph there,
The “Wat'ry God's” peculiar care!

63

My ready muse is pleas'd to squint her
Eye on worthy, Walpole printer,
Who wraps in paper of each week
What relishes of true antique,
To greet each good and letter'd man
A journal form'd on generous plan:
None of your dull mechanick Dutch-things,
But fraught with poetry and such things.
With politicians, wise as Solon,
With “Preacher,” “Hermit,” “Spondee,” “Colon;”

64

With pointed, pretty pithy “Peter,”
Whom ladies style the charming creature,
And chaunt his sentimental metre.
My mind with rapture swells, when e'er I
Contemplate brother “Hesdin Beri,”
And “Critick,” with an eagle-ken,
Skill'd to discern the faultering pen;
Who ably plies the polish'd file,
To give new gloss to Churchill's style,
And strives to make each rhyming elf
As pure a writer as himself.
And bids instructed taste to scorn
The sound of Della Crusca's horn;
But swift to Elysian fields elope,
Hearkening to poetry and Pope:
To “Common Sense,” and sober “Moralist,”
Who highly ornament our thorough list,
To them, with sage Apollo's leave, I
Erect a “Monumentum Ævi.”

65

Now, courteous reader, since awhile
To sing in Della Cruscan style,
By frolick Fancy born along,
We've stemm'd the Cataract of Song;
'Tis time, I think, with aching heart,
For Muse, and you, and I, to part;
Still cherishing the hope, however,
That we three gentlefolks, so clever,
When eke another season passes,
May meet on summit of Parnassus,
And trill a New Year's Ode, sublimer
Than ever flow'd from lip of rhymer.
 

There is a species of the walnut tree, which, from the roughness of its bark, is called “shag-bark.”

Barthelemi and Carnot.

Carnot was a long time missing, and supposed to be assassinated.

The infamous French Directory were even participators of the plunder acquired by acts of piracy on the American commerce.

Bache and Greenleaf, two editors of factious newspapers, ever in opposition to the administrations of Washington and Adams.

It is true that the democratick party, in the United States, have acquired all the power which they possess, by cajoling, flattering and deceiving the people. Newspapers and pamphlets, fraught with absolute falsehoods, were circulated gratis among the yeomen of the United States. The expense was paid by our “Great and Terrible Ally,” the French republick.

The poet may have been deceived in this particular: he does not pretend to the gift of prophecy.

Matthew Lyon, who is now a member of the legislature of the United States, and is said to be influential among the prevailing party, was an emigrant from Ireland, was sold for his passage, took an active part in the war between America and Great Britain, but was degraded for cowardice.

This infamous s---l spat in a gentleman's face, on the floor of congress-hall, in presence of the popular branch of the august American legislature. The injured person, Mr. Griswold, who was likewise a member of the legislature, sought IN VAIN for redress for this breach of privilege, and of common decency. He was at length induced to resort to the right of the strongest, and cudgelled the said infamous Matthew Lyon, in presence of the speaker and house of representatives in congress assembled!!! “Tell it not in Gath.” See Democracy Unveiled, third Edition, from page 100 to 105.

Self-interest induced the French to take part with America against Great Britain.

His Excellency John Adams, late President of the United States.

Most of the disturbances which have distracted the councils of the United States, have originated from intriguing foreigners: the greater part of whom were fugitives from the justice of their native countries.

Messrs. Gunn and Blount were members of our national legislature. Both remarkable for a propensity for duelling.

This Blount was a crafty democrat, alike destitute of moral and political honour. He endeavoured to open a negotiation with the British ambassadour for the surrender of the Floridas to the English, was impeached before the senate for this misdemeanor, and avoided, by absconding, the punishment due to his crimes.

Yrujo was the Spanish ambassadour to the United States. This alludes to a diplomatick controversy, in which the Spaniard's want of talents was very manifest.

“Constitution” is the name of an American frigate, built in Boston.

There was some miscalculation which prevented the lunch on the day appointed.

Mr. Carlisle printed the newspaper (in Walpole, in New Hampshire, New England) in which this production was first published. It was reprinted in pamphlets, and had an extensive circulation throughout the United States. Mr. Carlisle's newspaper was, at that time, edited by Joseph Dennie, Esq. Mr. Dennie now conducts, at Philadelphia, a literary paper, called the “Port Folio,” which has obtained great and deserved celebrity throughout the United States. Mr. Dennie, in this and some other poetical productions, was the author's Mentor:—

“Thou knowest, when Indolence possess'd me all,
“How oft I rous'd, at thy inspiring call,
“Burst from the siren's fascinating power,
“And gave the muse thou lov'st one studious hour.”
GIFFORD.

The author, in this, and a number of the following lines, “pours the tributary lay,” in due homage to the essayists and poets, who condescended to make the Walpole newspaper the vehicle for their useful and entertaining productions.

A sneer at Della Crusca's “Cataract of Light.”

In this expectation, however, the author, and perhaps some of his readers, were disappointed. Sickness rendered it impossible for him, at the commencement of the year, 1799, to wait on his Parnassian acquaintance.


66

SONG.

WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION, AND SUNG IN NEW YORK, JULY THE FOURTH, 1805.

[_]

The reader will perceive that it is a professed parody on the beautiful sailor's song of “Lash'd to the Helm.”

WHEN cannons roar, when bullets fly,
And shouts and groans affright the sky,
Amid the battle's dire alarms,
I'll think, my Mary, on thy charms;
The crimson field
Fresh proof shall yield
Of thy fond soldier's love;
And thy dear form
In battle's storm
His guardian angel prove.
Should dangers thicken all around,
And dying warriours strew the ground,

67

In varied shapes, though death appear,
Thy fancied form my soul shall cheer;
The crimson field
Fresh proof shall yield
Of thy fond soldier's love;
And thy dear form
In battle's storm
His guardian angel prove.
And when loud cannons cease to roar,
And when the din of battle's o'er,
When safe return'd from war's alarms,
O then I'll feast on Mary's charms!
In ecstasy
I'll fly to thee
My ardent passion prove,
Left glory's field,
My life I'll yield
To all the joys of love.

71

THE COUNTRY LOVER, &c.

A MERRY tale I will rehearse,
As ever you did hear, sir,
How Jonathan set out, so fierce,
To see his dearest dear, sir.
Yankee doodle, keep it up,
Yankee doodle dandy,
Mind the musick—mind the step,
And with the girls be handy.
His father gave him bran new suit,
And money, sir, in plenty,
Besides a prancing nag to boot,
When he was one-and-twenty.
Yankee doodle, &c.

72

Moreover, sir, I'd have you know,
That he had got some knowledge,
Enough for common use, I trow,
But had not been at college.
Yankee doodle, &c.
A hundred he could count, 'tis said,
And in the bible read, sir,
And by good Christian parents bred,
Could even say the creed, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
He'd been to school to Master Drawl,
To spell a-bom-in-a-bie,
And when he miss'd, he had to crawl,
Straight under master's table.
Yankee doodle, &c.
One day his mother said to him,
“My darling son, come here,
“Come fix you up, so neat and trim,
“And go a courting, dear.”
Yankee doodle, &c.

73

“Why, what the deuce does mother want?
“I snigs—I daren't go;
“I shall get funn'd—and then—plague on't—
“Folks will laugh at me so!”
Yankee doodle, &c.
“Pho! pho! fix up, a courting go,
“To see the deacon's Sarah,
“Who'll have a hundred pound, you know,
“As soon as she does marry.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
Then Jonathan, in best array,
Mounted his dappled nag, sir,
But trembled, sadly, all the way
Lest he should get the bag, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.

74

He mutter'd as he rode along,
Our Jotham overheard, sir,
And if 'twill gingle in my song,
I'll tell you every word, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
“I wonder mother'll make me go,
“Since girls I am afraid of,
“I never know'd, nor want to know,
“What sort of stuff they're made of.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
“A wife would make good housen stuff,
“If she were down-right clever,
“And Sal would suit me well enough,
“If she would let me have her.”
Yankee doodle, &c.

75

“But then, I sha'n't know what to say,
“When we are left together,
“I'd rather lie in stack of hay,
“In coldest winter weather.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
He reach'd the house, as people say,
Not far from eight o'clock, sir,
And Joel hollow'd “in, I say,”
As soon as he did knock, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
He made of bows, 'twixt two and three,
Just as his mother taught him,
All which were droll enough to see;
You'd think the cramp had caught him.
Yankee doodle, &c.

76

At length came in the deacon's Sal
From milking at the barn, sir;
And faith she is as good a gal
Ar ever twisted yarn, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
For she knows all about affairs,
Can wash, and bake, and brew, sir,
Sing “Now I lay me,” say her prayers,
And make a pudding too, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
To Boston market she has been
On horse, and in a wagon,
And many pretty things has seen,
Which every one can't brag on.
Yankee doodle, &c.

77

She's courted been, by many a lad,
And knows how sparking's done, sir,
With Jonathan she was right glad,
To have a little fun, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
The ladies all, as I should guess,
And many a lady's man, sir,
Would wish to know about her dress;
I'll tell them all I can, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
Her wrapper, grey, was not so bad,
Her apron check'd with blue, sir,
One stocking on one foot she had,
On t'other foot a shoe, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
Now should a Boston lady read,
Of Sally's shoe and stocking,
She'd say a “monstrous slut, indeed,
Oh la!—she is quite shocking!”
Yankee doodle, &c.

78

You fine Miss Boston lady, gay,
For this your speech, I thank ye,
Call on me, when you come this way,
And take a dram of Yankee.
Yankee doodle, &c.
Now Jonathan did scratch his head,
When first he saw his dearest,
Got up—sat down—and nothing said,
But felt about the queerest.
Yankee doodle, &c.
Then talk'd with Sally's brother Joe
'Bout sheep, and cows, and oxen,
How wicked folks to church did go,
With dirty woollen frocks on.
Yankee doodle, &c.

79

And how a witch, in shape of owl,
Did steal her neighbour's geese, sir,
And turkies too, and other fowl,
When people did not please her.
Yankee doodle, &c.
And how a man, one dismal night,
Shot her, with silver bullet,
And then she flew straight out of sight,
As fast as she could pull it.
Yankee doodle, &c.
How Widow Wunks was sick next day,
The parson went to view her,
And saw the very place, they say,
Where foresaid ball went through her!
Yankee doodle, &c.

80

And now the people went to bed:
They guess'd for what he'd come, sir;
But Jonathan was much afraid,
And wish'd himself at home, sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
At length, says Sal, “they're gone, you see,
“And we are left together.”
Says Jonathan, “indeed—they be—
“'Tis mighty pleasant weather!”
Yankee doodle, &c.
Sal cast a sheep's eye at the dunce,
Then turn'd towards the fire;
He muster'd courage, all at once,
And hitch'd a little nigher.
Yankee doodle, &c.
Ye young men all, and lads so smart,
Who chance to read these vasses,

81

His next address pray learn by heart,
To whisper to the lasses.
Yankee doodle, &c.
“Miss Sal, I's going to say, as bow,
“We'll spark it here to night,
“I kind of love you, Sal—I vow,
“And mother said I might.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
Then Jonathan, as we are told,
Did even think to smack her,—
Sal cock'd her chin, and look'd so bold,
He did not dare attack her!
Yankee doodle, &c.
“Well done, my man, you've broke the ice,
“And that with little pother,
“Now, Jonathan, take my advice,
“And always mind your mother!”
Yankee doodle, &c.

82

“This courting is a kind of job
“I always did admire, sir,
“And these two brands, with one dry cob,
“Will make a courting fire, sir.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
“Miss Sal, you are the very she,
“If you will love me now,
“That I will marry—then you see,
“You'll have our brindled cow.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
“Then we will live, both I and you,
“In father's t'other room,
“For that will sartain hold us two,
“When we've mov'd out the loom.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
“Next Sabbath-day we will be cried,
“And have a “taring” wedding,
“And lads and lasses take a ride,
“If it should be good sledding.”
Yankee doodle, &c.

83

“My father has a nice bull calf,
“Which shall be your's, my sweet one;
“'Twill weigh two hundred and a half,”—
Says Sal, “well, that's a neat one.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
“Your father's full of fun d'ye see,
“And faith, I likes his sporting,
“To send his fav'rite calf to me,
“His nice bull calf a courting.”
Yankee doodle, &c.
“Are you the lad who went to town,
“Put on your streaked trowses,
“Then vow'd you could not see the town,
“There were so many houses?”
Yankee doodle, &c.
Our lover hung his under lip,
He thought she meant to joke him;

84

Like heartless hen, that has the pip,
His courage all forsook him.
Yankee doodle, &c.
For he to Boston town had been,
As matters here are stated;
Came home, and told what he had seen,
As Sally has related.
Yankee doodle, &c.
And now he wish'd he could retreat,
But dar'd not make a racket;
It seem'd as if his heart would beat
The buttons off his jacket!
Yankee doodle, &c.
Sal ask'd him “if his heart was whole:”
His chin began to quiver,
He said, he felt so deuced droll,
He guess'd he'd lost his liver!
Yankee doodle, &c.

85

Now Sal was scar'd out of her wits,
To see his trepidation,
She bawl'd, “he's going into fits,”
And scamper'd like the nation!
Yankee doodle, &c.
A pail of water she did throw,
All on her trembling lover,
Which wet the lad from top to toe,
Like drowned rat all over.
Yankee doodle, &c.
Then Jonathan straight hied him home,
And since, I've heard him brag, sir,
That though the jade did wet him some,
He didn't get the bag, sir!
Yankee doodle, keep it up,
Yankee doodle dandy,
Mind the musick, mind the step,
And with the girls be handy!
 

Yankee doodle, a ludicrous musical air, which I believe was first invented by the English, in derision of the Americans, whom they styled “Yankees.” The Americans frequently wrote ludicrous songs to this tune. This chorus is quoted from a song, written, I believe, in Boston.

See note, page 39.

Housen is a corruption for household.

“A courting I went to my love,
“Who is fairer than roses in May,
“And when I got to her, by Jove,
“The devil a word could I say.”
See an old English comedy.

Gal is, in New England, the vulgar pronunciation of the word girl.

Most of the householders, in New England, have their washing, baking, and brewing, done within their own precincts. A young lady, who does not understand these branches of business is considered as not qualified for matrimony.

A glass of whiskey, mixed with molasses, is so called in New England, and is a common beverage with the peasantry.

There is a tale among the ghost-hunters, in New England, that silver bullets will be fatal to witches, when those of lead would not avail.

Verses are thus pronounced by the rusticks in New England.

Vulgar pronunciation of the word trowsers.


86

THE OLD BACHELOR: AN EPISTLE TO A LADY.

WHAT singular mortal is that,
Who sits in you cottage alone,
Excepting an old tabby cat,
Which grey with her master is grown?
Say, would you his origin know,
Or if the odd mortal came here
From regions above, or below?
The truth I will tell you, my dear.
Dame Nature, a fanciful jade,
As ancient philosophers say,
When all other creatures were made,
Had left a small portion of clay.

87

The matter, indeed, was so crude
She meant to have thrown it aside;
At length in a frolicksome mood,
To make something of it she tried.
Her goody-ship, worried about,
Was forc'd her old vessels to scrape,
For matter to finish the lout
To a biped, which had human shape.
She moulded the comical stuff,
'Till all in one mass was combin'd;
His body, though quite odd enough,
Was perfect, compar'd with his mind.
To a hard unsusceptible heart,
She added a thick leaden skull,
And threw in of pride such a part,
As well might suffice a mogul:
But did not implant in his breast
A taste for those pleasures refin'd,
Which give to enjoyment its zest,
And soften the cares of the mind.

88

Of wisdom she threw in a spice,
But omitted to add common sense;
Dutch prudence a very large slice,
To teach him the saving of pence.
She gave him good honesty's phiz;
No mummy was ever more grave,
Although, my dear madam, the quiz,
To his wit's full extent is a knave.
All this she perform'd in a jerk,
And being well pleas'd with him, so far,
She set herself gravely to work,
And forc'd him to swallow a crow-bar.
No wonder then this queer machine,
Which so rude, and so awkwardly made is,
By no-body ever was seen
To bow to the fairest of ladies.

89

At length he was usher'd to light,
A half-alive kind of commodity,
A thing, which you'd say, at first sight,
Was quite the quintessence of oddity.
She planted him down in yon hut,
To vegetate there with impunity,
Till death shall prohibit the Put
Any more from disgusting community.
 

The lady, to whom these lines were addressed, had been offended at the insolence of the character who sat as the original for our picture.


95

SIMON SPUNKEY'S PLAUSIVE POEM,

Inscribed to a certain COLONEL CANDIDATE; Or, Would-be Member of Congress.

“ARNA VIRUMQUE CANO.”

I SING the idol of a party,
A factious demagogue, as hearty
As ever hung, or lost his bead,
Since merry days of Johnny Cade.

96

Though Justice frown, and Discord smile,
I will be heard above a mile,
To laud the man, who cannot fail
To go to congress—or to jail!
I'll praise him, should I lose my ears,
And realize his party's feare;
Should he, and half his gang be hung,
His name shall rattle on my tongue.—
His passing merit will I shout
Through every village round about;
With fife, drum, ram's-horn, conch-shell, trumpet,
I'll blow, squeak, whistle, roar, and thump it,
Till all shall think the devil's to pay,
From Bennington to Canada!
What! though the federal junto sneer;
In courts of justice make it clear,

97

Thy character not over nice is—
That Cataline had fewer vices.
Though Hamilton, late intimated
That thou to Knavery wert related;
Declar'd that once you forg'd some letters
To circulate among your betters,
In which you did your best endeavour,
Yourself to recommend to favour;
And, modestly, then sign'd the same
(A slight mistake) another's name!—
What though in court you had him tri'd,
To show how wickedly he lied;
But there 'twas prov'd, by not a few,
His every wicked word was true!—
What though obnoxious to society,
For frequent scandalous ebriety,

98

Thy face like copper-kettle glows,
And like brass-knocker is thy nose;—
What though thy talents for haranguing,
Would cost a school-boy many a banging,
With half an hour to hem and stammer
Thou ne'er spok'st three words sense nor grammar—
Since Ireland, with her modern Gracchi,
With each a bleeding nose and black eye—
Since Algiers, all her corsairs mustering,
Can find no fellow bold and blustering
So qualified to take a station
With patriots met for legislation,
In spite of Nature, spite of Fate,
Thou shalt be dubb'd “Lyon the Great!”
Ye Vermont yeomen be contented,
Although by Lyon represented,
For if the creature was a monkey,
I'd be his advocate so spunkey,
Because his promises are pleasant,
Wherewith he entertains the peasant.

99

He'll make us justices of peace,
Though simple as a flock of geese;
Transform each bumpkin, beetle-headed,
To sheriff, not a little dreaded;
Exactly as he would have done
For clever folks at Castleton.
Who had been squires, I'll bet a shilling,
If every body had been willing!
 

The hero, celebrated in this and the next subsequent poem, is the gentleman of spitting-memory, of whom we have before made honourable mention. [See p. 56 and 57.] These addresses were written in the year 1797, while this our patriot was taking measures to crowd himself into a station, which afforded him an opportunity to entail everlasting ignominy on a legislature, who would suffer such an animal to remain within its walls.

The colonel was deeply in debt, and has been heard to acknowledge, that a prison, or a seat in congress, was his only alternative.

Alias, from Dan to Beersheba, or from one end of Vermont to the other.

Hamilton was a Vermontese, who had the hardihood to splash the pure regimentals of our redoubtable colonel.

Alias, with a head like a block or mallet.

A small village in Vermont. The simpletons of this sorry hamlet were gulled to vote for our demagogue by fair promises of promotion. The legislature, however, with whom rested the power of making appointments to offices, did not think proper to ratify these promises.


100

POLITICAL SQUIB.

[_]

Simon Spunkey, Esq. showeth, that the prayer of a certain “Memorial,” from Matthew Lyon, stating his pre-eminent qualifications for a seat in our national legislature, is just and reasonable.—Talketh big words to congress, and threateneth to overturn their apple-cart, and set his foot in it!

PRAY what can mean this mighty pother
About our democratick brother,
Our famous chieftain, Colonel Lyon,
Who's forc'd his modesty to try on,
A dress, which friends and foes declare
Is very little worse for wear;
And hie to congress, with petition,
Describing his forlorn condition:
For that he, having been neglected,
Is not so great as he expected.

101

Lyon, like jacobin of spirit,
Declares his own transcendent merit,
That, having canvass'd well the matter,
He would not seem himself to flatter,
But still is sure he is conspicuous
In Rutland county, and contiguous;
And is design'd by God, and Nature,
For seat in federal legislature;
That he was chosen, last December,
Right honourable congress member,
By votes a very large majority,
And proves it by his own authority;
His calculations can't deceive him,
Yet federal fools will not believe him.
But would you learn his pithy story all
Please to consult his wise “Memorial.”
Now should you, sirs, refuse his claim,
His brother beasts would cry for shame!
All, wild and tame, like Balaam's ass,
Exclaim, how came this thing to pass!

102

But federalists, a stubborn pack,
Still grope in errour's mazy track;
They say, that Lyon's votes were few,
That half he claims are not his due.
What, cannot common sense be taught them?
The votes were his, because he bought them!
I'll tell you how he paid the cost,
And purchased many, which he lost.
To drive his patriotick plan on,
From frontier forts he took the cannon,
And, with the democratick metal,
Cast many a handsome five-pail kettle,
With which, to gain his popularity,
He pension'd half Vermont vulgarity.
A kettle was a pretty present
To any mountaineer, or peasant,
Who would procure him votes in plenty,—
Each kettle paid, I think, for twenty!
Now, Messrs. Congress folks, I trow,
You'd better let the Lyon go,
Or else in these hard times, and critical,
We'll pelt ye, sirs, with squibs political;

103

We, patriotick jacobins,
Whom heaven ordain'd to punish sins,
Will shoot at every mother's son,
With pebble, whizzing from air-gun;
And you will not escape being smitten,
As did his majesty of Britain!
Nor is this all you may expect
If still you treat us with neglect;
We'll change our squibs to cannonading
Sink federal ship, with all her lading,
Enrich us with our country's plunder,
And make e'en Washington knock under

104

SIMON SPUNKEY'S EPISTLE EXCUSATORY,

ADDRESSED TO JOSEPH DENNIE, ESQ. EDITOR OF THE PORT FOLIO, AS AN APOLOGY FOR NOT MORE FREQUENTLY WRITING FOR NIPOETICAL DEPARTMENT.

SINCE Simon's muse no longer chatters
Of politicks and other matters,
The anxious publick wish to know
Whether the bard, to shades below,
Has hied with jacobin commission
To raise a mob, in fields Elysian,
Or gone to organize a club
Of demos, under Beelzebub.
Some knowing ones presume to say
The poet towers the other way,
Born high on Fancy's air-balloon,
Soars many a league beyond the moon,

105

Engag'd in some sublime affair
In building castles, in the air—
Gone where e'en Herachel cannot find him,
And leaves his partisans behind him.
Thus criticks form conjectures wise,
And Rumour tells a thousand lies;
But, if such tales as we have stated
Should, wantonly, be circulated,
Belknap may err, in our biography,
Or Doctor Morse in his “Geography,”
With less of prudence than temerity,
Mistate the matter to posterity,
And stories tell, about our silence,
To lesson our renown, a while hence.
These may be consequences: therefore,
I will unfold the why and wherefore,
Simon affords no rhyme, nor riddle,
Nor tunes of late, Apollo's fiddle,
No pithy rhymer ever chooses
To build his verse without the muses,

106

But not a muse, who wears a petticoat,
Will leave the banks of fair Connecticut;
Colon and Spondee, void of reason,
Have hired the lasses, by the season,
Confin'd each little sweet divinity,
By magick spell to their vicinity.
'Tis true the nymphs once made excursion,
To visit Vermont, for diversion,
But, when accosted, in these regions,
They sped away, like frighted pigeons.
When May her blue eye roll'd voluptuous
In airy ringlets dancing up to us,

107

In yonder sable swamp of hickory,
I Simon saw the nymph Terpsichore,
On banks of Otter Creek she blew sharp
On whistle now, and now on jewsharp:
'Twas all perfection, or so near it,
The raptur'd river stopp'd to hear it.
There too were Clio and Melpomene
With Barlow's recipe for hominy,
Set to celestial musick sweeter
Than pious psalm-tune, common metre.
Tall spruces bow'd their heads, so taper,
And hakmataks cut many a caper,
Thy forest, Thebes, show'd less agility,
When Orpheus fif'd with such ability!
Now chang'd the key, a plaintive strain,
Melodious murmurs o'er the plain;

108

Now sweetly swells the song sonorous,
Nymphs, fauns, and dryads join the chorus;
While nature listens to the lay,
And melts in ecstacy away.
At length, the heavenly tune completed,
On mossy banks the Muses seated,
Th' adventurous bard, advancing to them,
With modest confidence to woo them;
“Our views,” they cry, “are incompatible:”
“Go wait on lasses more come-at-a-ble.”
Although the bard, you may rely on't,
Pleaded like lawyer, fee'd by client,
No rhetorick could induce their stay,
Each, swift as hum-bird flew away.
The bard pursu'd, with might and main,
O'er tufted bill and velvet plain,
Till meeting Prudence, in a hollow,
She cautioned him in words that follow:
“How simple is the man, who chooses,
To court the coy, and fickle muses,

109

Though fascinating, still depend on't,
Grim Poverty is their attendant.”
The meagre minstrel of Despair,
With hair erect, and bosom bare,
Exclaims in monitory tone
Of Butler! Otway! Chatterton!
Tells many a sad, disastrous tale,
How poets always die in jail!
The bard thus jilted, by the muses,
Can now do nought but scrawl excuses;
Or if he higher raise his theme,
He sees said demon, in a dream,
Who lowers on him with front so haggard,
His line slow creeps, and seems to drag hard!
Then since my verses, grave or funny,
Will not procure me ready money,
And since in time I'd best be heedful,
To gain a little of the needful,
If you should chide me e'er so sharp
On hakmatak I'll hang my harp,

110

Throw Phebus' fiddle in the fire,
And give to Otter Creek my lyre.
 

A beautiful river, which divides New Hampshire from Vermont.

Colon and Spondee were the signatures assumed by gentlemen who wrote for the publication in which this epistle first appeared.

“Born in yon blaze of orient sky,
“Sweet May, thy radiant charms unfold,
“Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,
“And wave thy shadowy locks of gold!”
DARWIN.

Hominy is the Indian name for a kind of pudding made of the meal of maize, or Indian corn, called “Hasty Pudding.” Joel Barlow, Esq. wrote a poem, which was celebrated in America, entitled “Hasty Pudding.”

A kind of evergreen.

This threat, however, the author did not fulfil. The cacoethes scribendi impelled him occasionally to exercise his quill-driving faculties, the demon aforesaid, notwithstanding.


111

POLITICAL SQUIBS.

POETICAL SUMMARY For the New Year 1800.

THE federal bard, who erst bestow'd,
On Walpole-press a New Year's ode,
Which criticks, with sagacious noddle,
Affirm was built on Pindar's model;—
And who, by dint of love-lorn ditty,
Can melt a marble heart to pity;
Make hakmataks, and spruces join
The sprightly dance, and song divine;
Now glowing with poetick fire
Awakes to ecstacy the lyre!

112

Apollo, and Aonian ladies,
Whose lives are made of merry May-days,
Who sometimes warble lays diviner,
If possible, than even mine are;
Bring violins, and flutes sonorous,
To aid the song, and swell the chorus!
Born on poetick wing, we rise
Like blazing rocket to the skies,
While mortals gaze, and turning pale,
Mistake us for a comet's tail!
Which indicates, by corruscations,
The devil's to pay among the nations!
But hold, my rambling muse, so airy,
More wild than Oberon, the fairy,
Your ladyship, and I must stoop
To hit the jacobinick group,
Must dig, and delve, or take our aim,
A thousand leagues above our game.
Dismount from our Parnassian pony,
And dive to deeds of little 'tony;

113

The wiles of mobocrate make known,
Which Beelzebub would blush to own!
At Bennington, a set of fellows,
Of Tony made a pair of bellows,
Then plied their tool, with skill amazing,
To set sedition's coals a blazing,
And hope, by dint of perseverance,
To make all smoke within a year hence!
Supported by a crooked set,
This reptile prints a dull gazette,
And true it is, a viler thing
Ne'er caus'd its editor to swing:
Each paper, take them as they rise,
Will average at a hundred lies,
Which he, and other knaves invent,
Against the federal government!
E'en Virgil's Fame, with all her tongues,
And many a hundred pair of lungs,

114

And who, with ease, as poets say,
Can forge a million lies a day,
Now breaks her brazen trump, and sighing,
To Tony yields the palm of lying!
But, quoth the reader, “tell me why,
“You thus would cannonade a fly?
“Would not a warriour simple be,
“To fight a duel with a flea?
“Would old Vespasian e'er invest,
“With battering rams a weasel's nest?”
We own our errour, gentle reader,
And stand rebuk'd for our procedure.
Then, Tony, thou may'st creep along
Unnotic'd in our future song,
From Satire's arrows still exempt,
Until thou risest to contempt!
Then let us pass to what was done
By mob conven'd at Castleton.
'Twas on the fourth of last July,
A gang of democrats got high,
And old and young, and man and maid,
March'd round the town in grand parade,

115

Procession organiz'd, as some say,
By most redoubted Major Rumsey;
One Witherell an oration spoke,
He'd learn'd from Webster's spelling book:
An ode, as flat as water-gruel,
Was hammer'd out by Major Buel.
Full many buxom nymphs I ween,
Add vast eclat to this grand scene,
Amid the mob assume their places,
While rapture kindles in their faces;
A swivel loud each toast announces;
Each scrapes, huzzas, and kicks and bounces,
Waves high her go-to-meeting cap,
And gives the Vermont beast —a clap!
Our prospect opes to nobler views,
And, with your leave, my rambling muse,
I'll venture on a wider range
To notice what is new and strange.

116

This happy land for song presents
But few remarkable events;
Of course we've little to relate,
Unless our news we fabricate,
Or like some typographs' take pains
To hunt for plagues, and hurricanes,
Where Social Bliss erects her bowers,
And plenty falls in golden showers.
'Tis true, with sorrow have we seen
The yellow fiend, and T---m M'K---n,
By Providence let loose of late
To punish Pennsylvania state.
And often have we view'd affrighted,
The ruffian Irishmen-United!
But as to these, our hope and trust is,
The hangman soon will do them justice.
With whiskey-insurrection fellows,
They'll wave sin-offerings on the gallows;
The fate of every rogue who plays
The second part of Captain Shays.

117

Again we mount poetick nag on,
Or hire a seat in Neptune's wagon,
Or any other mode you please,
To take a trip beyond the seas.
See hapless Hollanders forlorn,
Now rue the day that they were born,
Between contending armies tost,
Their commerce gone, their navy lost,
Old Ocean must his rights reclaim,
And nought be left them but a name!
Farewell to Dutchmen!—Now for Paris,
Where Discord with Confusion marries,
Whence spring those dire infernal brats,
French jacobins and democrats!
Lo Sieyes, Merlin, Rewbel, Barras,
By turns the free republick harass,
And bring about their pure equality,
By murdering men, without formality;
For by philosophers 'tis said,
All men are equal—when they're dead!

118

Our time would fail us here to state
The decency of French debate;
But we'll suppose, by chance we've blunder'd
Among the turbulent Five Hundred—
Now see them threaten!—hear them rave!
We're surely in Eolian cave,
And fifty hurricanes, together,
Are busy, brewing stormy weather!
Indulgent heaven! deliver me
From that assassin, Jean De Brie.
By French direction, he and others,
Murder'd his diplomatick brothers:
In this atrocious act, their aim
To stigmatize the Austrian name.
A deed more horrid ne'er was known—
Night shudders on her ebon throne!
While backward rolls the rising sun,
And Satan owns himself out done!

119

Again we rise, and take our flight
To some tall Alpine's hoary height,
Where fighting Europe's maddening crew,
Parade before us in review!
Behold the tiger-bands of France,
O'er widow'd Switzerland advance!
Before them moves the fiend Despair,
And Murder stalks with clotted hair!
Fell Até, rising “hot from hell,”
With shrill, disanimating yell,
Leads forth Masseha's savage band,
To desolate the weeping land!
Again behold from Arctick pole
The dreadful tide of battle roll!
Suwarrow comes, in vengeance drest,
Before him Victory plumes his crest;
Struck by the lightning of his eye
The baffled host of Vandals fly;
But while their rapid flight they urge,
Pale Horrour screams their funeral dirge!

120

Now victory waits the haughty Caul,
Germania mourns her Hotze's fail,
Success attends that fell Hyena,
That scourge of Switzerland, Massena;
Yet France as sure as heaven is just,
Must yet be humbled in the dust,
And all her desecrated crew,
Meet the rewards to atheists due!
Now, muse, we take another start
To visit Monsieur Buonapart';
O'er torrid Africk's burning sands
Behold him roam with meagre bands,
Defeat, Disaster, and Dismay,
Companions of his dreary way!
So long that bloody jacobin
Has trod the wilderness of Sin,
No doubt he soon will find an alley,
To lead him down to Death's dark valley!

121

Now onward still our course we run,
And seek the oriental sun,
'Till we intrench ourselves before
The capital of rich Mysore.
The sultan having been, for years,
With English nabobs by the ears,
Now fortifies Seringapátam,
But soon the English troops are at him:
They storm the town, proceed to plunder
Mid fire, and sword, and blood, and thunder;
Find treasures hitherto untold,
And take—a tiger made of gold!
Now, muse, if further we should stray,
'Tis ten to one we lose our way:
Then let us now, without more fuss,
Remount our restive Pegasus,
And twice as swift as sun beam darted,
Fly back again from whence we started.
And now, kind reader, if you choose,
I'll just take off my high-heel'd shoes,

122

No longer strut poetick stilt on,
Like Homer proud, or Mr. Milton,
No longer flirt about and flare,
Like jack-o'lanthorn in the air;
But my sweet muse, and I, and you,
Must bid each other sad adieu,
But hoping still some other time,
That we shall meet in lofty rhyme,
And I, your favourite bard, aspire
To “tune my lays an octave higher;”
And strut, and swell, and rant, and roar,
As mortal never did before!
 

See page 44.

Two kinds of forest trees.

Anthony Haswell.

A village in Vermont.

This was precisely a la mode de Francois. Every one knows the gentle part which the fair sex took in the French revolution.

To wit, the Lyon we have before celebrated.

Yellow fever.

A noted democrat.

Many circumstances, too numerous to be here recapitulated, led to this conclusion.

This was written after the defeat of Buonaparte by Sir Sidney Smith.


123

A DELICATE DITTY.

MY muse so sweet,
A song complete,
Bid echo sound symphonious;
And trill away
A melting lay
Which rival may
The kissing Bonefonius;

124

My passions' hot
As pepper-pot

125

Or brandy mix'd with ginger!
The ardent fire
Of my desire,
Should I come nigh her
I really think would singe her!
My little love!
My duck! my dove!
Yield! yield to my caresses!
O let me giue
My lips to you
Till black and blue,
With rapture's sweet excesses!

126

While gods look down,
With envy frown,
At such uncommon blisses;
Dame Juno leers,
Jove tells his peers
He'd give his ears
For such an hour as this is!
Sweet nymph forbear,
To rave and tear,
Cease, cease your prude-like flirting.
To love begin,
Nor care a pin;
A little sin
There is but little hurt in!

127

If you assail,
With tooth and nail,
I'll kiss so much the longer!
And should you fight
And scratch and bite,
Like fury quite,
I'll kiss so much the stronger!

128

While gods look down,
With envy frown
On such uncommon blisses;
Dame Juno leers,
Jove tells his peers
He'd give his ears
For such an hour as this is!
Now tug and squeeze!
Now whine and wheeze!
Now let me smack you fairly!
O squeeze! O tug!
O smack! O hug!
(Hambúg! humbúg!)
O rarely!—Oh! how rarely!!!

129

While gods look down,
With envy frown,
On such uncommon blisses;
Dame Juno leers,
Jove tells his peers
He'd give his ears
For such an hour as this is!
Good reader, since
You stare and wince
At this our dainty ditty,
With aspect bluff,
Exclaim enough
Of this sad stuff!
Which moves my spleen and pity;
I'll even stop,
And shut up shop,
For female ware is brittle;
But would you wish
To taste a dish
Of tainted fish,
Go, read the songs of Little!
 

The object of this little poem is, by an ironical imitation of certain popular writers of meretricious love songs, and “Roguish Sonnets,” to stigmatize them with that opprobrium which they so justly merit.

Johannes Bonefonius, a Cyprian devotee, a Frenchman of the fifteenth century, and author of certain amatory poems, which have been rendered into English, with happy improvements, by some well-wisher to community, and are, no doubt, very popular, as well as highly meritorious.

This gentleman (like many other delicious poets, and poetesses, from the days of Sappho down to Mrs. Robinson) seems to have supposed, that young people, of different sexes, in the hey-day of youth and beauty, when the pulse

—“gine wallop,
“And ragings wild the veins convulse
“With still eternal gallop!”
are in want of fuel to be added to the blaze of passion. He, therefore, set himself to work to teach young ladies and gentlemen,
“The prettiest tricks in the world!”
and wrote his “Basis,” a very entertaining work, which contains much important information relative to some astonishing improvements, which the gentleman, in conjunction with one Miss Pancharis (who, I dare say, was no better than she should have been) had made in the ancient and honourable art of—kissing. But, to be serious.— If the poor publisher of an obscene print is justly sentenced to the pillory for poisoning the minds of the younger classes of community, what ought to be the punishment of the gentleman who diffuses poison a thousand times more deleterious, because a thousand times more palatable?

Burns.

This line from “Little's Poems,” which cannot be too severely anathematized for their pernicious tendency in society.

Hauriens animam meam caducam
Flagrantem nimio vapore coctam,
Coctam pectoris impotentis æstu.
JOHANNES SECUNDUS NICOLAUS.

Sweet hour, all hail!
With envy pale,
Which Jove himself might see.

O night of bliss
To equal this
Olympus strives in vain, &c.
Translation of the Epithalamium of Johannes Secundus.

“Pretty moralist! why thus beginning,
“My innocent warmth to reprove;
“Heav'n knows that I never lov'd sinning,
“Except little sinnings in love!”
LITTLE'S POEMS.

How much more noble is the sentiment of Burns on this subject:—

“The sacred lowe of weell plac'd love
“Luxuriantly indulge it,
“But never 'tempt the illicit rove,
“Though nothing should divulge it;
“I wave the quantum of the sin,
“The hazard of concealing,
“But och! it hardens a'within,
“And petrifice the feeling!”

Tum me plursibus hinc et inde figas
Et os unguibus hinc et inde vellas,
Nec morsus metuam unguium sulcos;
Quin quanto altius unguibus notaris,
Quanto fixierir acriore morsu
Tanto basia pressiora figam
Tanto et ipse primam arctione nexu!
Now thy teeth shall vengeful bite, &c.

Hambug! humbug!

This beautiful and delicious line is intended merely for the use of certain reviewers, in England, who mistook the object of a certain publication. It is as much as to say—gentlemen, this is indeed irety!!


130

“LOVE'S LABOUR LOST.”

PETER PUMPKIN-HEAD DEFEATED BY TABITHA TOWZER.

CANTO I.

“My passion is like mustard strong,” &c.

OF Tabitha Towzer I sing,
Pray list to my delicate ditty,
My verse like brass kettle shall ring,
Or sleigh bells, which gingle so pretty.

131

Then loud as a conch shell I'll sound,
In this my fine cantering metre,
What virtues and graces abound
In Tabitha Towzer's friend Peter.
Miss Tabitha Towzer is fair,
No guinea-pig ever was neater,
Like a hakmatak slender and spare.
And sweet as a mush-squash, or sweeter.
Miss Tabitha Towzer is sleek,
When dress'd in her pretty new tucker,

132

Like an otter that paddles the creek,
In quest of a mud pout, or sucker.
Her forehead is smooth as a tray,
Ah! smoother than that, on my soul,
And turn'd, as a body may say,
Like a delicate neat wooden-bowl.
To what shall I liken her hair,
As straight as a carpenter's line,
For similes sure must be rare,
When we speak of a nymph so divine.
Not the head of Nazarite seer,
That never was sharen or shorn,
Nought equals the locks of my dear
But the silk of an ear of green corn.
My dear has a beautiful nose,
With a sled-runner crook in the middle,

133

Which one would be led to suppose
Was meant for the head of a fiddle.
Miss Tabby has two pretty eyes,
Glass buttons shone never so bright,
Their love-lighted lustre outvies
The lightning-bug's twinkle by night.
And oft with a magical glance,
She makes in my bosom a pother,
When leering politely askance,
She shuts one, and winks with the other.
The lips of my charmer are sweet,
As a hogshead of maple molasses,
And the ruby red tint of her cheek,
The gill of a salmon surpasses.
No teeth like her's ever were seen,
Nor ever describ'd in a novel,
Of a beautiful kind of pea-green,
And shap'd like a wooden-shod-shovel.

134

Her fine little ears, you would judge,
Were wings of a bat in perfection:
A dollar I never should grudge
To put them in Peale's grand collection.
Description must fail in her chin,
At least till our language is richer,
Much fairer than ladle of tin,
Or beautiful brown earthen pitcher.
So pretty a neck, I'll be bound,
Never join'd head and body together,
Like nice crook'd neck'd squash on the ground,
Long whiten'd by winter-like weather.
The charms of her bosom would you, sir,
To form an idea be able,
A couple of oranges view, air,
On a brownish mahogany table.
Should I set forth the rest of her charms,
I might by some phrase that's improper,
Give modesty's bosom alarms,
Which I wouldn't do for a copper.

135

Should I mention her gait or her air,
You might think I intended to banter;
She moves with more grace, you would swear,
Than a founder'd horse forc'd to a canter.
She sang with a beautiful voice,
Which ravish'd you out of your senses:
A pig will make just such a noise
When his hind-leg stuck fast in the fence is.

136

CANTO II.

NOW reader, be patient the while
That your musical maker of metre
May set forth the graces in style
Of Tabitha Towzer's friend Peter.
He's tall, like swamp cedar, I ween,
But shrub-oak was never so nurly:
Like crab-apple juice was his mien,
And they christened him Peter the Surly.
He went every winter to school,
But wrought on a farm in the summer;
Was not very far from a fool,
But made a most capital drummer.

137

He'd read Morse's geography through,
Of novels some few, and romances,
Had courted of girls, one or two,
But never could tickle their fancies.
For he was so awkward a chap,
That the girls would have none of his fumbling,
But gave him the bag, with a slap,
And sent Mister Peter home grumbling.
But truely he was, on the whole,
A young man that wasn't so shabby,
The neighbours all thought it was droll,
If he wouldn't do for Miss Tabby.
For he was so brawny and stout,
That his prowess exceeded all praising,
There wasn't a lad thereabout
Could wrestle so well at “A Raising.”

138

Could mow full an acre a day,
And set the psalm well at a meeting,
But fell in love—ah, well-a-day!
With Tabitha Towzer, his sweeting.
He set out to court her, one night,
When he'd got his new Sunday dress on,
But study'd to say what was right,
As school boy would study his lesson.
He'd learnt a few hard names by heart,
Lest he should appear to be stupid,
Of Venus and Dian, so smart,
And that little (what's his name) Cupid.
And, now having rigg'd himself out
Quite up to the pink of the fashion,
With whiskey he made his heart stout,
Then went to give vent to his passion.

139

By crossing the deacon's home lot
He arriv'd in good season to woo her,
But thought he, I'd rather be shot,
Than attempt to say any thing to her.
He took round the room a few strides,
And follow'd her into the kitchen,
Then told her “Miss Tab, my insides,
“ Mr. Cupid like taylor is stitching.
“I feel most uncommonly droll,
“When by you I chance to be marching,
“My heart waxes hot as a coal,
“And hops like a pea that is parching.
“Can Tabby be cruel to night,
“And be such a hard-hearted creature,
“Her humble-come-tumble to slight,
“Who loves her so well he could eat her.

140

“You beat Venus, twenty to one,
“Though poets say she is divine,
“Outshine her as much as the sun
Does a torch-light that's made of pitch-pine.”
“Quoth she, you may speechify fine,
“And swear you will love till all's blue,
“You may coax, you may wheedle, and whine,
“But faith I'll not spark it with you.”
“Miss Tabb I shall know a good bit,
“If nothing should happen, a year hence,
“Will set out to live by my wit,
“And make a most dashing appearance.
“Though father says he can't afford
“To make a grand college-learn'd lad o'me,

141

“He'll pay Indian corn for my board,
“And send me a month to the academy.”
“I pray you to pity the smart
“Of one who is caught in love's steel-trap,
“And arrows stuck into his heart,
“Like wooden-pegs into a heel-tap!”
Our lover now feeling secure,
That his rhetorick couldn't but please her,

142

Made horrid attempt, to be sure,
(If a body may say it,) to squeeze her;
But Tabby was terribly wroth
To think he should think to get round her,
And snatch'd up a ladie for broth,
And knock'd him down flat as a flounder!
 

The first canto of this poem is some what similar to Gay's Song of Similes.

In the New England states almost every farmer is possessed of a large conch shell, a species of the alatus, with a hole perforated through the end. The sound produced, by blowing into this, is very similar to that of a huntsman's horn, only much louder. It is usually lodged with the cook-maid, who, when dinner is prepared, applies her ruby lips to the “vocal shell,” and affords to the hungry labourer as delightful musick as does the echoing born to the sons of the chase.

That is principally composed of English dactylicks, like “Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum;” which Virgil says represents the running of a horse.

Mud-pout and sucker are two kinds of fishes of little value, common enough in muddy streams. The otter pursues these with peculiar avidity.

A yankeyism, for knotty, or gnarled.

In New England every citizen, with a very few legal exemptions, is a soldier. Among the peasantry, playing the fife and drum are thought fine accomplishment.

“Gave him the bag,” see note p. 39.

“A Raising,” so termed in New England, is erecting the frame of a wooden building, of which description are most of the houses in the country. On such an occasion the athletick young men in the neighbourhood are invited to lend their assistance. After the business of the day is concluded, wrestling, hopping, and other gymnastick sports, are generally introduced by way of amusement.

This beautiful phrase is an abbreviation of “Your most humble-come-tumble down four-pair-of-stairs into-the-garret;” and is used by those, only, who practise the supreme bon ton of yankey politeness.

Is a phrase common among New England rusticks for tender tete a tete conversation between two persons of different sexes. The avocations of the peasantry render it, generally, inconvenient to attend to their fair ones in the day time. They consequently devote a portion of the night to that purpose. See Jonathan's Courtship.

It is fashionable in New England for the middling class of society, who cannot afford to give their sons a collegiate education, to send them to some one of their academies, of which there are, perhaps, too many for the good of community. Here they acquire a smattering of English grammar, and sometimes a little Latin. Proud of these accomplishments, our young gentlemen are apt to suppose themselves to be personages of too much consequence to return to their former laborious occupations, but either endeavour, without any of the requisite qualifications, to crowd themselves into the learned professions, or set up to live by their wits, in other words, turn swindlers, and nine times in ten fail for want of stock. This is, undoubtedly, one principal cause why New England has been almost proverbial for its multitude of sharpers.


143

A POETICAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN LIONEL LOVELORN, ESQ. AND GEOFFRY GINGER, ESQ.

Whereas, so pleas'd the Powers above,
I'm fall'n desperately, in love!
TRUMBULL.


144

[_]

THE object of the following Dialogue is to “brand with scorn” all petty dealers in draggle-tailed distichs and hitching hyperboles, who jingle about “sighing swains,” and “love-lorn lasses.” But I have had neither leisure nor patience, except in a few instances, to point out the particular nonsense of the many individual “dull fools,” of that kind,

Who will persist, although “in spite
Of Nature and their stars, to write;”
but have aimed the shafts of satire, with little discrimination, at the whole tribe of moon-struck Sonneteers, who palm upon the publick their “thrilling ecstasies,” and “liquid perils,” for genuine chattels of Parnassus. I would further observe, that I had nearly finished this dialogue before I had seen the “Baviad and Mæviad,” in which Mr. Gifford lashes some of the same herd which are here made the subject of satire. But although I cannot expect to gather laurels in the path of such a writer as Mr. Gifford, I hope I may be considered at least as a gleaner in the field of science, and have the honour of correcting some of the “servum pecus” who may have escaped his animadversion.


145

LIONEL.
LET shepherds pipe romantick strains
To melting maids, on lilied plains,
The charms of rustick beauty tell,
Of romping Bess, and “rosy Nell,”
While lambs disportive gambols play,
And robins vocalize the spray—

GEOFFRY.
Till whip-poor-will repeat the song,
And mocking-bird the note prolong,

146

Or tune sweet Fancy's vocal shell,
To moose-wood whistle, while they tell,
In strains as sad as you can think on,
In unison with bob-o-link horn
That Sally—somebody, their jewel,
Though very fair, was very cruel,—
Till blushing heifers, grazing round,
To love-lorn bulls repeat the sound.

LIONEL.
Let amateurs of wild romance,
On Shakspeare's airy night-steed prance;
Born on light wing of necromancy,
Excurse to highest realms of Fancy;
Or, led by sprightly sylph, or gnome,
O'er Spencer's fairy region roam—

GEOFFRY.
Not every crow, nor croaking raven,
Can match the tuneful swan of Avon;
Some bards, who mount, like school-boy's kite,
Are wildered in their giddy flight,
Mid cloudy labyrinths, so mazy,
Like wild-geese, lost in weather hazy.—


147

LIONEL.
Or let your dealer in sublime,
The bard, who builds the lofty rhyme,
Towering on bold Mæonian wing,
The toils of martial heroes sing,
Till tocsin-tone of triumph swells
To pealing pean, while he dwells
On Abercrombie's deeds, or else on,
The noble feats of Admiral Nelson!—

GEOFFRY.
Or wight of eagle-ken, who notes
The murderous feats of sans culottes,
Who best can manage Death's machines,
Guns, bayonets, bombs, and guillotines.

LIONEL.
'Tis mine a nobler theme to choose,
A theme more worthy of my muse,
For Sylvia's eyes my soul inspire,
And Cupid tunes Apollo's lyre!


148

GEOFFRY.
Now then for congées, cut and dried,
Adapted nice to lady's pride,
And compliments, to suit all classes,
From dutchesses to country lasses;
Indeed you choose as fine a theme
As ever gilded poet's dream;
Then strut along with courage stout,
And if you flag I'll help you out.

LIONEL.
Of Sylvia's charms enraptur'd sing!
The woodlands wild, of Sylvia ring!
Fleet echo spread the theme around,
Through all your airy realms of sound!


149

GEOFFRY.
Ye calves that bleat! ye pigs that squeal!
And every creaking wagon wheel,
In hovel, barn, or out-house found,
Roar, bellow, whine, and squeak around!

LIONEL.
The charming Sylvia, fair and young,
Exceeds all lasses ever sung
In Greece, or Rome; or nymph, whose smile
Now decorates Britannia's isle.

GEOFFRY.
The girl is handsome, sure enough,
Compos'd of good substantial stuff,
In beauty's mart, compar'd with Helen,
The last would scarce be worth the seiling.


150

LIONEL.
In Sylvia see more charms united
Than ever Solomon delighted,
When erst the royal Jew's pavilion
Was starr'd with beauties, half a million.

GEOFFRY.
Before, chagrin'd with love's inanity,
The preacher told us all was vanity!

LIONEL.
Had Sylvia been on verdant Ida—

GEOFFRY.
With naked goddesses, so tidy—

LIONEL.
Divinities at whom 'tis hinted—

GEOFFRY.
A country clown with rapture squinted—


151

LIONEL.
Compar'd with Sylvia had been mean as—

GEOFFRY.
A cinder-wench compar'd with Venus!

LIONEL.
Had she by Anthony been seen,
The Roman would have left his queen,
And yielded, cheerfully, to please her,
The Empire of the world to Cesar.

GEOFFRY.
And Cleopatra, fair, and willing,
Her charms had render'd for—a shilling!

LIONEL.
More beauties Sylvia's mien adorn,
Than gild the canopy of morn.
When Nature paints the landscape gay,
Her pencil tipp'd with solar ray,

152

And fleecy clouds, by Zephyr spread,
Form gay umbrellas over head.

GEOFFRY.
When Sol with Thetis takes a slight nap,
And rising, doffs his misty night-cap,
Calls for his bill, in devilish hurry,
And orders groom his horse to curry!

LIONEL.
Her ruby cheeks may vie with heaven
Emblaz'd with saphire hue of even,
Or rainbow-arch so multihued,
With gold, and purple tint imbued.

GEOFFRY.
Yea, colour'd full as high, or higher,
Than when our cook, by blazing fire,
Has made a kettle full of broth,
Then rubs her cheek, with woollen cloth!

LIONEL.
My Sylvia's eyes with rapture bright'ning,
Are like a flash of vivid lightning!


153

GEOFFRY.
But that with me excites no wonder,
Because her tongue out-claps the thunder!

LIONEL.
If Sylvia's beaming eyes should roll
Their kindling rays to Arctick pole,
The pale north would her empire own,
And melting, glow a torrid zone!

GEOFFRY.
So have I seen a cat, by night,
Ray A WHOLE CATARACT OF LIGHT!
And either fiery eye-ball gleam
Stupendous floods of lucid beam;
'Till Merick gulphs of brighter rays
Than scintillate in solar blaze,
Ascend TO SO SUBLIME A PITCH!
The creature seem'd to be a witch!

LIONEL.
When Sylvia sings, the ravish'd spheres
Seem hovering round with eager ears.


154

GEOFFRY.
I saw her call them down, as one
Endymion did the ravish'd moon,
And string them into beads to deck
Like robins' eggs her pearly neck!

LIONEL.
Her breath is purer than the gale,
Which fans Arabia's spicy vale.

GEOFFRY.
But not so sweet, I dare to say,
As lock of new mown clover hay.

LIONEL.
Sylvia surpasses fabled misses,
Who strove to lure the wise Ulysses,
And fascinates, without a sup,
From cruel Circe's magick cup!

GEOFFRY.
So have I seen a huge black snake,
With head protruded from a brake,

155

His fiery crest erected high,
And fix'd his splendour-beaming eye,
Till, fascinated, by the glare,
Some plumy tenant of the air,
Now this way, and now that way hies,
To 'scape the fell enchanter's eyes;
Now near the reptile takes his station;
Now hovers round in wild gyration;
Now faint, and yet more faintly flutters,
And faint the scream of horrour utters!
But still the serpent holds his lure,
And finds his plumy prey secure!

156

Such are the arts your nymph discovers
Among her silly throng of lovers!

LIONEL.
Sylvia can hoary age inspire,
And bid him glow with young desire;
The dim and down cast eye relume,
And pale cheek tinge with purple bloom!

GEOFFRY.
And all the faculties entrance!
And melt the soul at half a glance!
The bursting bosom fire, like tinder!
And scorch the “hot-heart” to a cinder!!

LIONEL.
My Sylvia can, by magick smile,
The pains of fell disease beguile!

GEOFFRY.
And her caress will even rout
The direst torments of the gout!


157

LIONEL.
Take Venus, with her turtle doves,
And all the graces, all the loves
Of mortal or immortal birth,
Who ever garnish'd heaven or earth;
Combine them in one matchless piece,
As erst Apelles did in Greece,
And Sylvia all their charms surpasses,—

GEOFFRY.
As sugar candy does molasses!

LIONEL.
Now let lorn pathos load the gale,
While lost Alsander's fate we wail.—

GEOFFRY.
While grey-wing'd horrour cowering near,
Yells murder in the tortur'd ear!


158

LIONEL.
Presumptuous youth! why did you dare
To meet the glance of nymph so fair!—

GEOFFRY.
Who thus your heart with anguish fills,
As if 'twere stuck with hedge hog quills.

LIONEL.
With far less hazard might you gaze,
On glowing Sol's meridian blaze!
Without sage Franklin's art aspire
To tamper with celestial fire!
Or roam wild Africk's scorch'd domain,
While blasting Samiel sweeps the plain!

GEOFFRY.
Yea, injur'd more, by looking at her,
Than if you star'd at pewter platter,

159

Which cook-maid Dolly scours so white,
It shines like silver dollar bright!

LIONEL.
Behold him rapt in thought profound,
His heavy eye salutes the ground:—
Pale, plodding on with solemn air,
He chides the cruel! cruel! fair!

GEOFFRY.
O dear! O dear! the case is awful,
Of grief, alas! he has his maw full!
If nothing will her hard heart alter,
His last resource must be—a halter!

LIONEL.
See now, by Fancy's dream betray'd
He seems to clasp the absent maid;
Stung with wild rapture, seeks her arms—
And rayes of hearts! darts! charms! alarms!

GEOFFRY.
Now his brain maddens! now he sips
Hogsheads of honey from her lips!

160

And now complains, that in his breast
He has a sort of hornet's nest;
And stung therewith good lack-a-day,
He cannot eat, drink, sleep, or pray!


161

LIONEL.
Now from his bosom bursts the sigh,
Where does the blest illusion fly?
Down his wan cheek, without control,
The tears of heart felt anguish roll!

GEOFFRY.
Now moody murmurs hear him utter,
Like child that cries for bread and butter!
Now moaning, madly mutters loud,
Like bully, horse-whipp'd, in a crowd!

LIONEL.
Well may the carking miser boast,
To navigate along the coast
Life's brittle bark, which Avarice steers,
But Love, nor Pity, never veers;
His sordid soul is with his treasure,
To care alive, but dead to pleasure:
And well may torpid stoick own
His heart is cold as frigid zone;

162

That he is dead to beauty's charms,
Insensate to those fond alarms,
That pleasing, but still poignant wo,
Which ever anxious lovers know,
Though all the bliss, which he can boast,
May be enjoy'd by wooden post;
And well may barber's block be vain
Of its immunity from pain;—
But tell me, Geoffry, if you please,
If thou art like to one of these,
Whether at random, or by rule,
Thou aim'st the shafts of ridicule?

GEOFFRY.
While perch'd in high ethereal garret,
A spectacle for fools to stare at,
In ditty, either wild, or stupid,
You sang of Venus, Circe, Cupid,
And dragg'd about your jaded muse,
'Mid clouds, and stars, and golden hues,
I thought it beat to keep in sight,
But not impede so bold a flight.
If now a tour you would commence,
Within the realms of common sense,

163

I think, for once, that I will venture,
To condescend to be your Mentor!

LIONEL.
Perhaps it best your humour suits
To level women with the brutes,
Maintain the Turkish tenet droll,
The lovely creatures have no soul.
You have some wild whim in your pate,
Of innocence in savage state;
Become an advocate, I trow,
For frantick schemes of Jaques Rousseau.
Would you have queens to market trudge,
Depress a dutchess to a drudge,
In Beauty's empire make such ravages
That men become a set of savages?

GEOFFRY.
Not so; but never will I vex
With your impertinence the sex;
Nor utter such extravaganzas
As sublimate your swelling stanzas;
Nor, poring at the lovely creatures,
Spy solar systems in their features;

164

For 'twould be saying, on the whole;
“My dears, I know you have no soul;
“But sweet Miss Peggy, or Miss Pol,
“Thou art a mighty pretty doll!
“And made of such weak muslin stuff,
“That nonsense suits you well enough!”—

LIONEL.
Is it your humour to degrade
Bright Hymen's court, to mart for trade?
Have pretty nymphs expos'd to sale,
And ladies vendned off by tale,
Prohibiting your Dutch-like strand,
All metaphors, as contraband;
But, in your foresaid fair, or market
When lads and lasses meet to spark it,
Bid buxom damsel lusty youth,
Deal, merely, in the naked truth,
And Mister Hodge address Miss Sue—
“If you'll love me, then I'll love you,
“For I am come to go a courting,
“Because you've got a handsome fortune.”


165

GEOFFRY.
A while, my “sweetest Fancy's child,
You warble native wood-notes wild,”
As though you tenanted the bushes,
With black birds, screech owls, crows, and thrushes;
And next, with Della Cruscan flight,
You stem the cataract of light;
Attended (how supremely odd it is)
By shoals of heathen gods and goddesses;
Now you descend in vulgar style,
Below old Blackmore full a mile.

LIONEL.
But you, like some tall sachem stall,
With Satire's brandish'd tomahawk,
Perhaps, to joys of love, a stranger,
You act the part of dog in manger.
Say, would you cause by all your pother
One half our race to damn the other;
Daughters of Eve, and Adam's sons,
Turn bachelors, and Amazons;

166

Or long fac'd sour ecclesiasticks,
Of taper nuns, and gaunt monasticks?

GEOFFRY.
Let rapt attention chain thine ear;
Hear me! and reverence what you hear,
While truths, more precious I unfold
Than splendid gems incas'd with gold.
I am not one of those, who own
The nerve of steel, the heart of stone,
But beauty's willing votary bow,
Nor blush allegiance to avow.
When angry clouds life's sun o'ercast,
Preluding rude Misfortune's blast;
When doubts perplex, when cares annoy,
And bar each avenue of joy;
When the pale victim of disease,
Which baffled art cannot appease;
Torn by affliction's sharpest thong,
Till hope has ceas'd her siren song,
Sees shrouded Horrour's spectred form,
Ride moaning in the midnight storm;
The fairer sex possess the power
To tranquillize the torturing hour,

167

And bid mild sympathy impart
Her cordial to the bursting heart.
To cheer with smiles the vale of woe
Is not the only power they know;
But oft it is their sweet employ
To light with love the lamp of joy.
'Tis their's, in pleasure's brightest noon,
The fibres of the heart to tune
To tones of rapture, which might even
Prelude the harmony of heaven!

168

But I don't think the little witches,
By nature meant to wear the breeches,
And spread the empire of their charms,
Like Mahomet, by force of arms;
Nor will I with my system graft
The whims of Mary Wollstonecraft;
And have of course no plan in view
To form a naval rendezvous
Of petticoated sailors, jolly,
At Spithead, under Admiral Polly.—
And I confess I have my fears
They would not march like grenadiers,
With bayonet, and courage stout,
To storm a fortified redoubt.
Nor do I think that pretty maids
Would stand, in regular blockades,
But would surrender, to a man,
Although intrench'd by fam'd Vauben!
So much for them; and now to you
I will address a word or two:—
Do not commence in love's career
With whimpering plaints about your dear;

169

Nor tell the world your case deplorable,
That you're despis'd by your adorable;
Nor sit on moss-grown bank and snivel,
Because Miss Sylvia is uncivil;
Nor sing to every brawling brook,
She petrifi'd you with a look;
Nor make you fair, in prose or metre,
A monstrous pretty sort of creature;
Nor sack the store-house of Dame Nature
For similes wherewith to mate her;
Nor conjure up, with deal of pains,
From vasty deep of poet's brains,
A heathenish sort of wizard battery,
To take her heart by dint of flattery.—
That Venus, Dian, and the rest.
Compar'd with her are second best.
Thus have I known a would-be poet,
Who was, alas! a man of no wit,
Whose lays with tawdry nonsense shone,
As much like your's as are your own.
He form'd a chaos every line
Of all his folly could combine;

170

Oft haul'd in gods, by head and shoulders,
To discipline militia soldiers,
And made the stout old bully Mars,
The captain Church of Indian wars;
The pretty musical Miss Clio
Her jewsharp tune on broad Ohio;
And little Cupid, all the tippy,
Along the banks of Mississippi,
In spite of all poetick laws
His arrows shoot at tawny squaws!
All this may do, in humorous pieces,
Where things absurd our mirth increases;
Would you describe a drunken rout,
And for expressions are put to't,
Then introduce old Mr. Bacchus,
And make his godship chyme with crackers;
But would you win the fair you love,
Such foolish trifling be above;
For if she's sense a single grain,
Your florid nonsense will be vain;

171

Your true sublime, and lorn pathetick,
She will abhor, like an emetick.
But if so fortunate your case is,
That love is built on friendship's basis,
Not a mere wild and wanton fire,
But pure esteem, and chaste desire;
What time a thousand tender arts
Denote a unison of hearts,
When half express'd, half stifled sigh,
And timid glance from downcast eye
Appear expressively unique,
With crimson flush of beauty's cheek;
And all in tender tone proclaim
That hopes and wishes are the same;
Unite assenting hearts and hands,
In gentle Hymeneal bands;
Then may you fondly hope to prove
The tranquil sweets of wedded love,
While rapture crowns each passing day,
Till life and love at once decay!

 

Lionel attempting to chaunt a love-song, Geoffry respondeth every stanza, and taketh him off, much after the manner of a merry Andrew, at Bartholomew Fair.

“Thinking her love he never shall obtain,
“One morn he haunts the woods, and doth complain
“Of his unhappy fate, but all in vain;
“And thus fond echo answers him again,” &c.
COWLEY.

This was written in England.

“The fascinating power ascribed to serpents, especially to rattle-snakes, by which they are said to draw animals to them is very curious. The rattle-snake fixes its eyes upon any animal, such as a bird or squirrel: when the animal spies the snake, it skips from spray to spray, hovering and approaching nearer to the enemy; descending with distracted gestures, and cries, from the top of the loftiest trees to the mouth of the snake, who opens his jaws, and in an instant swallows the unfortunate animal.” Encyclopædia Britannica. It appears, however, from the testimony of American philosophers, that the fascinated bird or beast is only busied in acts of hostility against the fascinator. See a brief sketch of about 40 pages, in large quarto, American Philosophical Transactions, vol. iv. from p. 74 to 114.

A Della Cruscan epithet.

This is somewhat in the manner of Southey, who has heaped horrour upon horrour in his “Joan of Arc”

“But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face,
“I durst no more upon them gaze,
“Than on the sun in July!”
SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

The gentleman who wrote Little's Poems appears to have been affected in the same manner. Having sighed away a “wild hour” or two, in concert with his beloved, he complains, that

“When to my pillow rack'd I fly,
“With wearied sense, and wakeful eye,
“While my brain maddens, where, oh! where
“Is that serene consoling prayer,
“Which once has harbinger'd my rest.”

The author of the “Pleasures of Hope” talks more sensibly on this subject.

“But can the noble mind for ever brood
“The willing victim of a weary mood,
“On heartless cares, which squander life away
“And cloud young genius bright'ning into day;
“If hope's creative sp'rit cannot raise
“One trophy sacred to thy future days;
“Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine
“Of hopeless love, to murmur and repine.”

“When on my sickly couch I lay,
“Impatient both of night and day,
“Lamenting, in unmanly strains,
“Call'd every power to ease my pains;
“Now, with a soft and silent tread,
“Unheard she moves about my bed.”
SWIFT.

“I've paced much this weary mortal round,
“And sage experience bids me this declare;
“If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
“One cordial in this melancholy vale,
“'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
“In other's arms breathe out the tender tale!”
BURNS.

A chieftain famous in the wars between the New England colonists and the American Aborigines.


172

THE CARRIER OF THE COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, TO HIS PATRONS.

THAT unaccommodating churl,
Who keeps things ever on the whirl,
Old daddy Time, for aye careering,
Has piloted another year in;
And in the course of last year's flight, he
Has brought about affairs so mighty,
Such a most wonderful, immense
Concatenation of events,—
That your most humble servant flatters
Himself a hint of some vast matters
This personage has set afloat, is
Well worth your honour's worship's notice.
I don't say I am very knowing
In all the great affairs now going:

173

But hope my recapitulation,
(Though not a notable narration)
May serve, by way of retrospection,
As prompter to your recollection,—
As index to newspaper knowledge
As well as if t'were made in college;
And, with your honour's leave, I'll aim,
To interweave the mighty claim
Your humble carrier inherits
By virtue of prodigious merits,
More than in weeks he could lay down t'ye
To smack a little of your bounty.
Laden with all important budget,
Thro' wet and dry I'm doom'd to trudge it,
News from all nations,” precious particles,
By last arrivals, all prime articles;—
Though tempest-beaten, hot or frigerant,
I tell you how the powers belligerent,
Enrag'd to desperate degree, rose,
And hack'd each other like true heroes.
And you have learn'd from Tom the carrier,
How Britain, Buonaparte's barrier,

174

Won't let the mushroom Gallick king, land
His ragamuffin rogues in England!
A very unpolite proceeding,
Which shows old John Bull's want of breeding.
How Mister emperour Buonapart'
As quick as lightning took a start,
Fierce as nine furies to attack
The troops of old snail-motion'd Mack,
Who, with less trouble was surrounded
Than ever cross grain'd pig was pounded;—
How Bony swears he means to flirt
Proud Austria's eagle in the dirt;
But lo! the hardy Russ is hasting
To give the Jaffa-man a basting;
And Prussia's monarch, rous'd at last,
War's crimson'd Rubicon has past,
And undertakes to lead the van,
Against the Harlequin Corsican.
I've plac'd in ken of mental sight,
A most tremendous naval fight,
Where Nelson bold, Britannia's pride,
Heroick fought, and nobly died.

175

I've worn out many a pair of shoes
In bringing you domestick news,
That you in corner snug may con
How congress spouters carry on—
How titman Johnny had the face
To set himself to hunt judge Chase,
Indeed, the monkey of a fel-
Low in a mouse trap might as well
Have all so slily undertaken,
To snare a mammoth, or a kraken.
I've told you how the demo rout
Are balancing to come about,
And having, by old Nick's seduction,
Got half way down the hill Destruction,
Would very willingly get back,
And trace the good old federal track;—
Yes, having sacrific'd our navy,
And sold our commerce to old Davy,
Sans sailors, skill, or naval stores,
They'd conjure up fine seventy fours;—
And, having plunder'd and bereft us,
Would bring us back where Adams left us.

176

Thus rogues, unless they're vastly callous,
Will read confessions on the gallows;
And even the Devil himself would preach,
If forc'd to make a dying speech.
But, verily, good democrats,
The people must be blind as bats,
If this your death-bed-like repentance
Should hinder them from passing sentence—
And send you, for their own security,
To your original obscurity:—
For your manœuvres, sirs, I'll venture ye,
Have put the nation back a century,
Have so debauch'd the people's morals,
Have caus'd so many party quarrels,
That had each leading democrat
Nine times the nine lives of a cat,
Nine times the number'd not atone
For one ninth part of what he's done.
E'en Spaniards tread us under foot,
Who dare as well be hung as do't,
Had not our weak administration
First cut the hamstrings of the nation;

177

And our good mother Britain aims
At mustering up some musty claims,
To make it plain in black and white,
We never own'd one neutral right!
But if she strains her points too tau't,
She wont fare much the better for't;
For though our government's weak as may be,
Our emperour timid as a baby,
She'll find the Yankees still inherit
Some portion of the Breed'shill spirit;—
Ev'n let her rouse her ugly lion,
His snarling mightiness to try on,
She'll find our daring privateers
Will pull the grisly growler's ears;
And fighting fellows, like Paul Jones,
Will stand a chance to break his bones.
Some stupid people in the nation
Think president-palaveration
'Bout peace and friendship, will disarm
Our enemies like witch's charm.
Let such chaps lay their heads together,
To fan the sun out with a feather;—

178

To stamp their feet upon the ground,
And keep the globe from turning round;
To scale the moon astride a rocket,
And stuff the stars in small clothes pocket:—
And, when accomplish'd all these schemes,
They'll realize their waking dreams,
Of keeping vile sea-robbers under,
Without the aid of cannon's thunder!
I've given you columns oft which treat on
The glorious deeds of general Eaton,
Though in a proper light to show him
Might well require an epic poem.
My usefulness is not confin'd,
To matters of the mighty kind;
But, I can cook you up a mess,
Of heavenly homespun happiness:—
Suppose your honour lacks a wife,
The tender solacer of life,
Are smitten with a lady's phiz
Which brighter than a rainbow is,
But, when in her commanding presence,
So much you dreaded some misfeasance,

179

You never yet have dar'd discover
How most outrageously you love her;—
Though more than twenty times you tried,
By timid tenderness tongue tied,
Not one sweet sentence could you utter,
Not even one melting murmur mutter;—
In our Commercial Advertiser,
In Poet's corner, just apprize her,
That her bright eyes, and Cupid's dart,
Have drill'd like honey comb your heart—
That, scorch'd with love, in midst of winter
You're pin'd to shadow of a splinter.
Say that her bosom's ribb'd with flint,
An adamantine heart is in't,
Unless she yields her world of charms
To bless her longing lover's arms.
All this set forth in song or sonnet,
When Miss Delectable shall con it,
I make no doubt but she'll surrender,
And make her heart a legal tender.

180

I hope, your honour, when you marry her,
You won't forget poor Tom the carrier.
Suppose your honour is a merchant;
You'll find our paper, when you search in't,
The finest vehicle now going
To tell you what you should be knowing.
Here's all the merchandise you need,
Hemp, ginger-bread and mustard-seed;
Sweet lozenges, and lottery tickets,
And pectoral drops to cure the rickets,
Grindstones, fine muslin and molasses,
Tobacco, squills, and opera glasses,
And every article, I'd swear for,
Which gentleman or lady'd care for.
But now, to cut my story short all,
Since I am such a useful mortal,
Your honour wont refuse me, I know,
A little of the ready rhino.
Some little change of any sort,
I'll humbly thank your honour for't,
And wish the generous donor may
Hail many a happy NEW-YEAR'S DAY!
 

Written for January 1st, 1806.


181

ADDRESS OF THE CARRIERS OF THE NEW YORK GAZETTE AND GENERAL ADVERTISER, FOR THE YEAR 1806.

WHEREAS, it is the fashion ever,
That was, the carriers, do endeavour,
On New-Year's day to greet our friends,
In lines, which gingle at their ends;
In nice conformity to custom,
We'll try a few, as we can muster 'em.
Astride our Pegasean back,
We scale Parnassus in a crack!
Well, having featly scrambled up,
The giddy eminence's top,
We are not much below, if any,
The highest ridge of Alleghany;

182

And in a proper situation
To take a survey of the nation;
Are plac'd above, you understand,
The tip top gentry of the land,
The rich, the proud, the gay, voluptuous,
Of course are all bound to look up to us.
While our quick eye, poetick ranges,
To glance at all that new or strange is,
We ken, throughout our wide dominion,
Vast revolutions in opinion!—
Among our democrats, the heads
Inclin'd to be, in substance, feds,
Although, to save themselves, no doubt,
Disgrace of having wheel'd about,
These artful gentlemen would claim,
The privilege of some other name.
We hope the time will come, ere long,
They'll own with candour they've been wrong,
And listing under federal leaders,
Reverse their crazy late procedures.
Our president, in last address,
Cook'd up, I ween, the queerest mess,

183

Which you'll allow, to say no more,
Oppugnates’ what he's said before,
Which looks as if some fluctuation,
Clouded the councils of the nation.
One day, we're told our nation's trust is
Plac'd altogether on its justice,
Next day we learn, with great alarm,
Our en'mies we must try to “harm,”
And, though the strife's “unprofitable,”
Hit them as hard as we are able.
Thus, in the Odyssey, we're told,
One Dame Penelope of old,
At night unravell'd, in a jerk,
The fruits of many a hard day's work.
It seems our government believe us
By nature prone to be mischievous,
And therefore, lest we should be venomous,
Strip us of means to harm our enemies;—
Would have our fam'd Columbian eagle,
As harmless as a simple sea-gull;
And lest he hurt folks, in a freak,
Would slit his talons—break his beak.
Though this, in seeming quiet born,
He sits like Sampson, to be shorn—

184

Let them beware, for we announce,
'Tis ten to one he'll make a pounce,
To sweep off Madison's whole troop,
And Giles's gang, “at one fell swoop.”
Their scheme, the nation to disarm,
Lest we might chance our foes to harm,
Was sure a comical proceeding
In our great men, who govern “Fredon,”
A very precious plan it would be,
If mortals all, were what they should be:
When robbers, of immense rapacity,
Are so deficient in sagacity,
They let the rich pass, unprotected,
Their right of property respected;
But bid the strong man—arm'd to stand,
Who threatens vengeance, sword in hand,
This pretty, philanthropick plan, sir,
Without the least dispute will answer:—
'Till then, beat lay it on the stocks,
With Mister Jefferson's dry docks.
On our poetick steed, well mounted,
In half the time that ten is counted,

185

Through air, as swift as lightning hurl'd,
We visit Europe's troubled world.
Your honour'll please to mount behind us,
Or else you won't know where to find us.
And first, with great regret we're smitten,
To view the conduct of Great Britain;—
Since her proud navies bridge the ocean,
She leans a little to a notion,
That right and power, in stormy weather,
Were meant to sink and swim together;—
And she will strive to make this out,
By knock-down arguments, no doubt,
The most impressive logick, since,
It must confound, if not convince;—
And 'tis allow'd, in any season,
A seventy-four's a powerful reason.
But if she makes too great a fuss,
She'll hurt herself in hurting us.
From past experience she should think us
Too powerful now for her to sink us;—
A quarrel too, with other fractures,
Would half destroy her manufactures.

186

Now, had we time, we'd stop and tell,
How nobly Nelson fought and fell,
Describe the fight, in terms so furious,
'Twould be admir'd by all the curious;—
But we'll lay up our true sublime,
To treat you with some other time.
Besides, our publick prints will rattle,
For six months hence about this battle,
Since victory's annals can't show one
In which more mighty deeds were done,
They'll make it thunder, loud and louder,
'Till each newspaper smells of powder!
Now, would our Pegasus but stop,
To Africk's coast we'd take a hop,
Would to posterity bequeath
For Eaton's brow a laurel wreath:
But sure a humble carrier's praise,
Can't add one sprig to Eaton's bays.
We next o'er Europe “tramp! tramp! tramp!”
As far as Buonaparte's camp,
But still keep out of cannon shot
Of Buonapart' and Bernadotte;

187

Would glut the jaws of an hyena,
Ere we'd approximate Massena;
We therefore keep at decent distance,
And pray that by kind heaven's assistance,
The continental powers allied
May humble haughty France's pride,
And that they'll muster troops and talents,
In Europe, to preserve the balance.
Now, after these our flights amazing
We'll turn our Pegasus a grazing,
But hope, your honour, some small change
May go to recompense our range,
For, though we neatly through the air go,
Still money makes the poet's mare go.

188

LINES

WRITTEN AFTER A VIEW OF PASSAICK FALLS, IN A BOOK CALLED THE ALBUM, KEPT AT THE INN OF MAJOR GODWIN.

HENCEFORTH may the muses,
Sans any excuses,
Enliven the landscape surrounding;
May the lyre of Apollo
Be heard in each hollow,
And dryads the thickets abound in.
The beautiful scenery
And cotton machinery,
And delicate paper-mill lasses,
And fine cataract
Make it matter of fact
That Patterson rivals Parnassus.

192

THE DESPONDING LOVER.

A SONG.

I'M in love with a lady,
Who's fairer than May day,
But December storms are not colder;
I'm ruin'd forever
Unless I can have her,
And so have I twenty times told her.
To a splinter I'm pining,
To a ghost I'm declining,
You may see the sun shine through my thin sides,
Be twattled, be twitter'd,
To a shadow I'm fritter'd,
And a fricasee's made of my insides.
My tears mix'd with sighs trickle,
But her heart's an icicle,

193

Which never, I fear, will be melted,
And when I'm alone, sir,
I grunt and I groan, sir,
By the storm of her cruelty pelted.
But she, cruel fair,
Says she should not care,
If I were as dead as a herring,
With a heart like a feather,
She'd go any weather,
And dance all the way to my burying!
Well, since I can't please her,
I'll no longer tease her,
But seek me out some other pretty one,
Who if not quite so killing,
Is a little more willing,
To condescend kindly to pity one.

194

SONG

WRITTEN FOR THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK, AND SUNG THE TWENTY FIRST DECEMBER, 1805, AT THE CELEBRATION OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FIRST LANDING OF THE COLONISTS AT PLYMOUTH.

[_]

Tune Anacreon in Heaven.

WHILE round the full board, in festivity's glee
The sons of New England all joyous assemble,
Let us swear to live ever united and free,
That our friends may rejoice, and our enemies tremble;
For friendship carest
In each patriot breast,
Shall sweeten enjoyment, give pleasure its zest,
And the virtues approving shall sanction the plan,
Which strengthens their empire and dignifies man.

195

This day did our fathers, on Plymouth's bleak coast,
The corner stone place of an empire's foundation,
The mansion of freedom—of patriots the boast,
The nursery of heroes—the worlds admiration.
From them while we trace
Our illustrious race,
Their merits from mem'ry may time ne'er efface,
While the virtues approving shall sanction the plan,
Which strengthens their empire and dignifies man.
Ye sages and patriots, whom liberty fired,
The great architects of American glory,
Whose names and achievements for ages admir'd,
Shall be burnish'd by bards and be blazon'd in story.
To us, sainted sires,
Impart your own fires,
When freedom commands and when glory inspires,
While seraphs, approving, new triumphs shall plan,
And New England heroes lead victory's van.
FINIS.