TO THE PATRONS OF THE
To the regions of Pluto, and banks of the Styx,
Last night took its flight Eighteen hundred and Six,
And Time, with his sceptre, this morning has driven,
Its place to supply, Eighteen Hundred and Seven!
And thus while the seasons and months roll away,
And empires and kingdoms increase and decay,
Pray what of the world's passing scenes could you guess,
Were it not for the sheets which we send from our press?
To speak of events in the year that's past o'er,
Would be to repeat what we've told you before;
For in our gazette, I presume you'll remember,
From January first, to the last of December,
We gave you the news from the world's region vast,
And many fine stories we likewise rehears'd;
We informed you what tricks mister Bonaparte play'd,
What monarchs, and kingdoms, and empires, he made;
How Russia, and Austria, and Sweden, and Spain,
At loggerheads gambled, while France won the game,
While Prussia, quite late, to the hazzard-board jogg'd-
The bull-dogs of England, alone, can withstand,
This giant who drives all before him by land,
If they did not check, and restrain his career,
'Tis a hundred to one but he'd be over here.
These things we related, and much more beside,
Which pass'd in the old world, beyond the blue tide:
Of events nearer homeward 'tis needless to tell,
What happen'd I'm conscious you know very well;
Our country still blest with mild peace and high health,
Increasing in fame, population and wealth;
And, but for a Faction to plague and to vex us,
No troubles of state should we have to perplex us.
What scenes will unfold in the course of this year,
My art cannot tell you exactly, I fear:
But since in prediction we Carriers must deal,
I'll try my hand too-- for its spirit I feel.
And first, for those bullies o'er yonder salt spray,
Who make it their trade to fight, plunder, and slay,
And slaughter the nations, your prophet supposes,
They'll either make peace, or have more bloody noses!
Then in our own country (the stars so inform me)
Some new things will happen, of which I must warn ye;
The man who is strongest will live 'till -- he dies!
Our Congress will sit 'till -- they're ready to rise!
John Bull will resort where roast beef and rich sauce is;
The Yankee will feast on fat pork and molasses!
The Dutchman on buttermalk, mix'd wid supparsen!
And Teague on poraturs, with whiskey -- Och grahn!
Our statesmen seek salaries! Lawyers for fees!
And physicians make bills for you -- just as they please!
And even in Poughkeepsie, strange things you may see,
A few I'll foretell, but not what they'll all be:
Old maids will determine to lead single lives!
And bachelors not to be hamper'd with wives!
Our country folks smoke with their pipes upside down,
As pigs, geese, and turkies, they cry round the town!
Our merchants sell cheap if you'll bring the l'argeat!
And our taverns deal nectar, boys, all the day long!
But now, as I've got near the end of my tether,
In prating of this, and of that, and of t'other,
And having now clos'd my prophetic oration,
It only remains that I make application;
Which briefly I'll do, and then quick disappear,
If you'll help me to taste of the holyday cheer;
For Carriers, whatever your honors may think
Cannot long bring you news without victuals and drink.
You know the Barometer, many long days,
Has try'd to amuse you in various ways,
With prose entertained you, and sooth'd you in rhyme,
So if you a'n't suited, the fault isn't mine:
It now has chang'd owners, (and that's something new,)
But we'll make no fine promises what we will do;
For in promises, oft, disappointments are plac'd,
And the proof of the pudding is found in the taste:
But this we'll engage, and 'tis all you can ask,
To please you shall be our most arduous task,
While true to our country, the truth we regard,
And leave you to judge how our toils to reward.
A Happy New Year, I have only to say,
And bid you adieu till the next comes in play,
While here, as a signal, I place the word FEE,
A hint that's sufficient for you and for me.
January 1, 1807