University of Virginia Library

On General Washington's declining a Re-election to the Presidency of the United States.

The ROSE-BUD: A Song.

The MOB-CALL, or the Charter of Sedition.

Huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay,
Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons and Day;
Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause,
Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws:
Constitutions and oaths, sir, we mind not a rush,
Such trifles must yield to us lads of the bush;
New laws and new charters our books shall display,
Compos'd by Conventions and Counsellor Grey:
Since Boston and Salem so haughty have grown,
We'll make them to know we can let them alone.
Of Glasgow or Pelham we'll make a sea-port,
And there we'll assemble our General Court:
Our Governor, now, boys, shall turn out to work,
And live, like ourselves, on molasses and pork;
In Adams or Greenwich he'll live like a Peer
On three hundred pounds, paper money, a year.
Grand-Jurors, and Sheriffs, and Lawyers we'll spurn,
As Judges we'll all take the bench in our turn,
And sit the whole term without pension or fee,
Nor Cushing or Sewal look graver than we.
Our wigs, though they're rusty, are decent enough,
Our aprons, though black, are of durable stuff,
Array'd in such geer, the laws we'll explain,
That poor people no more shall have cause to complain.
To Congress and impost we'll plead a release;
The French we can beat half a dozen a piece;
We want not their guineas, their arms or alliance;
And as for the Dutchmen, we bid them defiance.
Then huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay,
Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons and Day;
Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause,
Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws.

INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS On the Publication of a Newspaper.

Too long have vile abuse and party rage
Engross'd the Press and soil'd the weekly page,
While truth itself, by partial hands pourtray'd,
Half met the light, and half was sunk in shade.
And was the Press, fair Freedom's gift, design'd
To serve each baser passion of mankind?
To flatter pride, to point the darts of spite,
To blast the good, and shield the bad from light?
Forbid it heavens! a nobler aim be ours,
To mend the heart, to raise the mental powers,
To show the world, on one extensive plan,
All that is great, and good, and dear to man;
The patriot's plans and councils to display,
To point where glory shapes the warrior's way,
And as fresh wonders burst from every clime,
To mark th' unfoldings of eventful Time;
That while our youth with sparkling eyes shall read
How heroes conquer, or more nobly bleed,
Their infant souls may catch the sacred flame,
And join their country's love to that of fame.
—Co-patriots all, of every sex and age,
Whom chance may lead to view this humble page,
Protect our Press, espouse a stranger's part,
And deign to foster Learning's favourite art;
With candour read, nor too severely blame;
'Tis all we ask, who dare not hope for fame.

The News-Monger's Song for the Winter of 1788.

DARBY AND JOAN.

A NEW SONG.

“Il faut de l'Argent.”

Since, to please the gay world, all our fashions must be
Adjusted and set—a la mode de Paris;
I'll sing you, my comrades, un petit chanson,
Just imported from Paris—“Il faut de l'argent.”
The truth of my ditty all stations must own,
From the churl at his plough, to the king on his throne.
Great George to his Commons is wont to repeat
The success of his envoys, his armies and fleet:
He laments that new burdens must still be laid on,
And concludes a fine speech with—“Il faut de l'argent.”
Put spur to Pegasus, and take a fair start,
To the humbler of kings, the sublime Bonaparte:
He darts through the nations, unrivets their chains,
Sets their tyrants adrift, and gives freedom the reins;
He gives them a cap, and he plants them a tree;
He romps with their wenches, and bids them be free.
Huzza! shout the dupes, we slide merrily on:
“Just so,” quoth the chief, but—“Il faut de l'argent.”
Nor can we the freaks of sly Edmund forget,
How he play'd and cajol'd with good father Fauchet;
How he rav'd, “My poor country is lost and undone!”
“Catch old birds,” quoth the Abbe—“Il faut de l'argent.”
To terrible France, who pot-valiant is grown,
Three envoys were sent, and the sequel is known:
With seals and commissions their pockets were stor'd;
But the deuce of a douceur for great Perigord.
Point d'Argent! the business lagg'd heavily on;—
A douceur is wanting—“Il faut de l'argent.”
From the clouds of high life we descend to the vale;
There the truth of my ditty is prov'd in detail:—
Quacks, scribblers, and pedlars, re-echo my song.
And sigh, in sad chorus—“Il faut de l'argent.”
When yet a green stripling, by destiny hurl'd,
From the arms of my parent, to buffet the world,
The good man at parting his counsel thus gave:
“Be honest, my child—be industrious—be brave—
“But learn that no business with men can be done,
“Till the secret is bought of—“Il faut de l'argent.”
The strength of this lesson too early I try'd;
At the feet of my mistress I languish'd and sigh'd—
I swore that her beauty was more than divine.
She smil'd at my raving—confess'd it was fine;
But whisper'd, “Fair ladies can better be won
By a douceur, well tim'd; for “Il faut de l'argent.”
To the learn'd in the laws I for counsel repair'd;
I stated by case, which, in silence, he heard;
Then my case I re-stated, in language more plain,
And still, as he doubted, I told it again:
Each fact I narrated—he seem'd to forget,
And the only response was, a “but,” or a “yet!”
Ah! then I remember'd, that nought can be done,
Till the secret is bought of—“Il faut de l'argent.”
E'en now, while I sing, the stern landlord draws nigh,
A bill in his hand, and a dun in his eye:
“Say, whence, and what art thou? vile spectre, be gone!
“Why still dost thou haunt me?—“Il faut de l'argent.”

IMPROMPTU: On reading an Order of the Corporation of Albany ordering all the Dogs in the City to be killed.

'Tis done! the dreadful sentence is decreed!
The town is mad, and all the dogs must bleed!
Ah me! what boots it that the dogs are slain,
Since the whole race of puppies yet remain!

THE PURSE: ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

The Sweets of Matrimony Triumphant, or one Bachelor CONVERTED.

SPEECH OF A DEMOCRATIC LION.

The Selfish Man's Prayer on the Prospect of War.

POETICAL ADDRESS to the CITIZEN ADET.

VERSES WRITTEN A SHORT TIME AFTER THE POPE FLED FROM ROME, AND THE CITY FELL INTO THE POSSESSION OF THE FRENCH ARMY.

EXTEMPORARY REFLECTIONS ON SEEING A BULL SLAIN IN THE COUNTRY.

The sottish clown who never knew a charm
Beyond the prowess of his nervous arm,
Proud of his might, with self-importance full,
Or climbs the spire, or fights the mad'ning bull;
The love of praise, impatient of controul,
O'erflows the scanty limits of his soul;
In uncouth jargon, turbulently loud,
He bawls his triumphs to the wond'ring crowd:
This well-strung arm dispens'd the deadly blow,
Fell'd the proud bull and sunk his glories low:
Not thoughts more tow'ring fill'd Pelides' breast,
When thus to Greece his haughty vaunts express'd:
“I sack'd twelve ample cities the main,
“And six lay smoking on the Trojan plain;
“Thus full and fervid throb'd the pulse of pride,
“When veni, vidi, vici, Cæsar cried.”
Each vain alike, and differing but in names,
These poets flatter—those the mob acclaims;
Impartial Death soon stops the proud career,
And bids Legendre rot with Dumourier.
The God whose sovereign care o'er all extends,
Sees whence their madness springs, and where it ends;
From his blest height, with just contempt, looks down
On thund'ring heroes and the swaggering clown:
But if our erring reason may presume
The future to divine, more mild his doom
Whose pride was wreck'd on vanquish'd brutes alone,
Than his whose conquests made whole nations groan.
Can Ganges' sacred wave, or Lethe's flood,
Wash clear the garments smear'd with civic blood?
What hand from heaven's dread register shall tear
The page where, stamp'd in blood, the conqueror's crimes appear?

POETICAL EPISTLE TO A YOUNG LADY, ON LETTER WRITING.

Most people in writing this method pursue,
I'm in good health, thank heav'n; how is it with you?
Then of weddings and funerals they make a black scroll,
And conclude with much love to their cousins and all.
Such letters as these little pleasure convey,
Which prove that the writers have nothing to say,
So 'twould seem by their writing—yet many there be
Whose words are well chosen, whose language is free,
Who can talk half a day in an elegant strain,
But whatever they write seems confin'd with a chain.
Since letters well written give exquisite pleasure,
But mangled, as usual, offend beyond measure;
Since daily occasion compels us to write,
Read these lines, my dear Clara, and learn to indite.
Here is then the great secret, to this you'll attend,
Write in just the same manner you'd speak to your friend;
Avoid all hard words and bombastical strain,
If your style be but chaste, it can scarce be too plain.
Many persons who've got a slight tincture of knowledge,
Young boarding-school misses, and students from college,
By high sounding nonsense endeavour to please,
And talk of their bright and their gloomy ideas;
Avoid all this stiffness, this troublesome toil,
And write to your friends in your every day style.
There are others who run on the opposite stump,
And affect so much ease, they write hop, skip and jump:
In one line a sad death puts in mourning the town,
In the next cousin Sue has a new-fashion'd gown.
This fault may be cured by a moment's reflection,
For letters, though free, yet require some connection;
And who, but a madman, in one fleeting breath,
Talks of funerals and weddings, and fashions and death?
I've known many persons who write very well,
Commit shocking blunders in attempting to spell:
To avoid this disgrace, a small Entick provide,
And whenever you write let it lay by your side;
As you happen to doubt, to the word you must turn,
And, spelling, you thus without trouble may learn.
In using great letters, remember that names
Of places and persons, as Boston and James,
I and O, when singly a word they compose,
Have capital letters, in metre and prose;
So each chapter and section, and every new line
In verse, as you'll see by this letter of mine.
Be sure to write straight, 'tis the mark of a clown
To suffer his lines to run up hill and down:
Rule your lines, as you write, with a pencil of lead,
And when done rub them out with a morsel of bread;
Always write by a margin, I never could bear
To see lines, like militia, stand hither and there.
If you make a mistake, as is often the case,
Blot not with the pen, let the penknife erase;
Rub next with the handle the paper quite plain,
And then you may write the word over again.
To wonderful hurry some ladies pretend,
They're always in haste, when they write to a friend;
All their letters conclude with complaining so sad,
Excuse haste, for my pen, ink, and paper are bad:
Such flimsey excuses but heighten the crime,
The busiest, if prudent, can always find time.
On business, when urgent, you may write in haste,
Otherwise you should stay till the hurry be past.
Neither paper nor ink, thank kind fortune, are dear,
And pens scarcely cost us one six-pence a year.
Since then 'tis so easy to keep a good store,
Why of pens, ink, and paper eternally poor?
Receive these directions, dear girl, in good part,
Read them o'er with attention, commit them to heart;
From numbers though artless, some good may accrue,
So with my best wishes, dear Clara, adieu.

LINES WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO AN HIEROGLYPHICAL LETTER FROM A LADY.

Dear Madam, your letter I'll try to explain,
An altar, a cradle, a moon in the wane;
And next a poor cuckold the paper adorns,
With ears of an ass, and two terrible horns;
A phaeton gay as the President's coach,
A mirror, a crown, and a gouty man's crutch;
These emblems masonic your pages contain,
To decypher their meaning has puzzled my brain:
The altar, I trust, is to Hymen erected,
A power by all good wedded people respected;
He gives to his suppliants, when pleas'd with their prayer,
A cradle, and crowns all their vows with an heir;
From which you this doctrine endeavour to prove,
That the friends of the cradle pay homage to love.
The dim waning moon is a moral profound,
It says nothing stable in pleasure is found;
Then e'en love once full orb'd may decrease to esteem,
Grow pale as the moon, and grow cold as her beam
That he who permits his affection to flag,
When grown cold as the moon must be crown'd like the stag.
What the crutches betoken admits of no doubt,
That vice and intemperance 'gender the gout;
That death must soon follow unless I amend,
You whisper this truth, and you act like a friend;
For the mirror you hand me reflects but too true
The marks of old age and intemperance too.
The phaeton next our attention must claim,
It reminds me of him whence we borrow the name;
He, thinking to guide the proud steeds of the sun,
Was dash'd from his car, and for ever undone;
Who, wanting true merit, aspires to be great,
Must tumble and meet with a Phaeton's fate.
Good sense and discretion should limit desire,
For danger increases as people mount higher;
And its better to live with mere mortals below,
Than hurl'd from the skies to be drown'd in the Po.
The last of your emblems I think is a crown,
And its meaning is not quite so obvious I own;
Perhaps it intends what the wise man allows,
That a virtuous wife is a crown to her spouse.
Though I trust this eulogium to many is due,
I am sure none more justly deserve it than you.

IMPROMPTU: WRITTEN IN A ROOM AT A SMALL COUNTRY INN WHICH HAD ONCE BEEN THE RESIDENCE OF A LADY OF THE AUTHOR'S ACQUAINTANCE.

IMPROMPTU.

I Knock'd, I heard a low and bustling sound,
Which seem'd to say, “Thou tread'st on hallow'd ground;”
Anon a man of visage sad and thin,
The unwilling door slow opening, let me in:
There I beheld six reverend saints, who sat
Around the board in stern religious state;
A seven-fold gloom enveloped every face,
And Death's grim horrors shaded all the place.
What could I do? 'twere base to run away,
And 'twere profane with holy men to stay.
I strove to go, my feet refused their aid;
I strove to speak, my faltering voice betray'd:
Trembling, at length I approach'd the good old man,
And, bowing low, in whispers thus began—
“Lend me two bottles, Sir, I ask no more.”
“Take them,” he cried, and pointed to the door.

CONGRESS DUELISTS: A NEW SONG, TO THE TUNE OF YANKEE DOODLE.

In a Letter from Jotham to Jonathan.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MAJOR WYLLYS,

Of the Federal Troops, who fell in an engagement with the Savages at the River St. Joseph, in the Western Territory of the United States.

MODERN ARGUMENTATION.

'Twas at commencement tide, so goes the tale,
At Harvard, Dartmouth, Princelon, King's, or Yale,
A candidate for Learning's prime degree
Propos'd this question to the faculty:
“This horse will always from a tan-yard fly,
“While that, unmov'd, a tan-yard passes by;
“Which is the wiser horse, say, learned Sirs,
“The one that starts, or he that never stirs?”
The question thus proposed and understood,
Pro more solito, debate ensued.
Eash side with warmth defended or oppos'd,
When the learn'd Præses thus the reas'ning clos'd:
“Much has been spoken, much may yet be said,
“Enough to puzzle many a wiser head;
“But when the force of argument is tried,
“When the sage question's view'd on every side,
“We then may prove what the old sophists tell,
“That truth lies buried in a baseless well.
“The starting advocates this truth premise,
“That of all excellence below the skies,
“Man is the standard; hence, whene'er we find,
“In beasts or birds strong semblance to mankind,
“We count it worth, and are well pleased to see
“In instinct ought that apes humanity.
“E contra, where this semblance least is found,
“We rate the brute at nought, and spurn him from the ground.
“Exempli gratia, who, since time began,
“E'er hurt the bird that builds her nest with man?
“If Mrs. Airy, though involv'd in debt,
“Paid ten bright dollars for a paroquet,
“And for a monkey six, the cause we know;
“This talk'd, that flutter'd like her fav'rite beau.
“Yet the same lady loath'd the serpent's form,
“And call'd for hartshorn if she saw a worm.
“Now to apply this reas'ning to our case;
“We deem him worthiest of the human race,
“Who, at the mention of atrocious deeds,
“Starts back with horror, and with pity bleeds.
“But the vile miscreant whose supreme delight
“Is plac'd in havoc and in scenes of fight,
“Who rudely revels in the house of woe,
“We hate, and blush that man can sink so low.
“Why starts the steed whene'er a tan-yard's spied,
“But that he sees a brother's reeking hide?
“Here then, they say, a strong resemblance lies,
“Ergo, the horse that starts is quasi wise.
“They who approve this reasoning say 'tis plain,
“That fellow-feeling marks the polish'd man.
“What then? 'cause polish'd man may write and dance
“Must fishes, beasts, birds, insects, rhyme and prance?
“Who dares affirm thus much will hardly miss
“To say that hogs and bears should bow and kiss.
“To every grade of being in its kind,
“The sapient former certain ends assign'd:
“Who best subserves this end doth most excel,
“Who deviates from this end can ne'er do well.
“Alike to man and horse this rule extends,
“The means must be subservient to the ends.
“What's the chief end of horse? his lord to please,
“To bear his weight with safety, speed and case;
“'Tis not to start, to heave, to weep, to whine,
“In notes distracted, Methodist, like thine.
“Can he be said with safety to convey
“His lord, who starts and stumbles by the way?
“Doth he, with speed transport his master's weight,
“Who stops to start at every tanner's gate?
“And, lastly, where's the ease? at every breath.
“The rider fears the horse will prove his death;
“'Tis plain, the starter deviates from all the rule
“Of right, and when he deviates is a fool.”
Thus, sophists, have your arguments been plied,
What now remains but that we should decide?
On due consideration, then, we say,
“He is the wiser horse who fearless speeds his way.”

LINES ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

Written at Schenectady.

Come see what beauties o'er our fields are spread,
What sturdy herds our verdant pastures tread;
O'er our wide plains what stately cedars rise,
Whose cloud-top'd heads support the bending skies:
Here every grove with vocal music rings,
Here every breeze wafts health upon its wings.
Come see what sports delight our tawny swains,
Join their wild dance and hear their rustic strains:
For though untutor'd by the Latian Muse,
Convivial lays and homely verse they choose,
Yet nought can shock a vestal's purer ear,
And list'ning saints the harmless song might hear;
Rough are our manners; yet, must you confess,
That, flattering no one, we deceive the less.
As yet no cringing parasite from France
Has taught our sons to lie, or nymphs to dance;
No hungry wretch here looks about for prey,
Eager to seize, and practis'd to betray.
Though, as you pass along the crowd, you'll hear
A foreign tongue, ungrateful to the ear;
For sure the Dutch, rough, masculine and strong,
Boasts not the sweetness of our native song;
Yet while this hardy race you see and hear,
Expanding memory grasps no mean idea.
Think how their sires, industrious, firm and brave,
Extorted Belgium from the struggling wave;
How, when vast mounds the new gain'd land secur'd,
Proud cities rose where once a navy moor'd:
Think how their bands, all prodigal of blood;
At Freedom's call the tyrant's rage withstood;
Hispanian legions darken'd all the plain,
And Philip hurl'd the bolts of war in vain:
By Nassau led, and fired by Virtue's flame,
The conquering Belgæ reach'd the height of fame.
Intent on gain, the Dutchman walks demure;
Though nought he gives, in honesty secure
He pays his debts, and finds his income sure.
Here e'en the warmest passions move by rule;
Here friendship shivers, and e'en love is cool:
Where beauty fails, a jointure well supplies,
And dollars shine more bright than Stella's eyes.
Curs'd be his memory who first dar'd to join
With sacred love the dull terrestrial mine;
Who stripp'd the passion of its noblest charms,
And gave fair Venus to a Vulcan's arms.
Nor think, because no bard of tuneful tongue,
The Mohawk or our Hudson yet have sung,
That Roman Tiber, or Britannia's Thames,
Survey more beauties than our silver streams.
Swoln with the gifts of tributary snows,
From the cold North majestic Hudson flows
O'er many a trackless wild, yet views with pride
Three cities rising on his verdant side:
For here Albania's gothic towers are spread,
There infant Hudson rears her rival head;
Here, where the streams uniting greet the Sound,
Proud York appears with airy turrets crown'd.
Mark! from the west, how in romantic maze,
By groves and flowery lawns the Mohawk strays;
Gently in silent modesty she flows,
And scarce a breeze disturbs the sweet repose;
Not clearer waves by Hartford's ville are seen,
Nor tread her blooming nymphs a softer green;
Till where abrupt infuriate Cohoes roars,
Down the vast rock his thundering torrent pours,
Mad on himself the thunders roll again,
Shake the dark grove and deafen all the plain.

ON CRIMES AND PUNISHMENTS.