The Carrier's New-Year's Address,
To the Patrons of the
POUGHKEEPSIE JOURNAL, and
The patrons of Mr. Pottery's Journal
in the Village of Poughkeepsie will,
please to accept of the following
address from their ever obedient
Youngest Assistant and faithful carrier.
Young Misses have their Valentine,
On which to speak as well as shine:
Grave Matrons, on their Lady day,
Hold ev'ry where unbridled sway;
And junior Typos have their hour,
Of fuss, parade and puny pow'r.
Not loveliest morn of lovely June,
With all its music and perfume,
Can view with New-Year's chearful gleam,
Tho' shorn the meads, and froze the stream.
Adieu this day, to groaning screws,
Black balls, cold types and thrice told news.
Melodious sounds invite me here,
And dear cockanie tempts me there;
That basket bursts with luscious pies
And there, the golden pippin lies:
The cider mantles in the glass,
And brisk the cups of porter pass.
He must [xx], or less,
That can unmoved see all this:
I too will join the throng and taste,
--But--check this wild ungovern'd hast[e];
Regardless both of cake and beauty,
Bow to your PATRONS as in duty.
I stand repov'd -- to you, and you,
I tender ev'ry homage due.
Sages and Matrons -- live to see,
Your children's children climb the knee --
Your sons, may wealth and honors grace,
And beauty bloom in each Girl's face.
Ye hapless swains who lovely roam
And never enter'd Hymen's dome,
Before this new-born year is o'er
Be wise, and wed, and err no more.
And ye fair maidens, lovely train!
Bloom not like flow'rs on rocks, in vain;
To hymen's sacred bowers press
And being blessed, doubly bless.
My greetings well over -- let's light our cigars
And talk of Europa, its squabbles and wars.
In the front rank of carnage conspicuous is seen
That scourge of mankind the accurst Napoleon;
Like a comet erratic he shines but to burn,
From the glare of his splendour palid virtue must turn;
The nations around him submissively bend,
Look pale at his frown and each mandate attend.
Great Britain alone has the javelin hurl'd,
Stop't the torrent of death, and kep't Hope in the world;
May her arm energetic, grow stronger and stronger,
Till the Demon of Corsica rages no longer.
Deceived, betrayed, and much injur'd Spain
Resisted alas ! but resisted in vain :
The struggle ne'er over, while panting for breath,
She frowns on her murderer even in death.
The Portuguese cup of distress overflows!
Expiring she lies in the midst of her foes:
One friend for a moment, averts the dread blow,
And sheds a kind tear at her sad overthrow.
Batavis is lost and her name is no more;
Her page from the volume of nations is tore:
Her Tromps and her Evertsons triumph'd in vain,
For gone is the nations, its virtues and fame.
The Germanic Eagle no longer will soar,
He grovels in dust, to be heard of no more.
The sceptre of Vasa a Gallic hand grasps,
And old Swedish glory in agony gasps.
E'en the monarch of Russia enthroned on snow
Sets the deluge advance with an aspect of woe.
And hopes by submission to ward off the blow.
His meanness a few coward moments may gain,
But sooner or later his doom is a chain.
The Turk with his turban, his sofa and pipe,
For his last degradation already is ripe;
Like the Greek he once vanquish'd, he sinks in disgrace,
Forgot his past valor his name and his place.
My long tale of mischiefs is now nearly o'er;
I'll only just mention one tragedy more:
--This greatest of Merces, this Chief of renown,
Who sets monarchs up and who pulls monarchs down,
Can boast at the close of a prodigy life,
That he grappled in battle and conquer'd -- HIS WIFE.
My country kind patrons, my country's a theme,
On which I can prattle, and scribble, and dream,
In rapture forever -- Hail land of my birth!
The far happiest portion of this lovely earth;
A grace and a majesty marks every feature
And stamps Thee the fav'rite and darling of nature.
No despot of Europe shall mar thy fair face,
Thy heroes can never endure the disgrace;
Those heroes who once chas'd thy foes to the main,
Will combat and conquer again and again.
Thy statesmen mayhap, like the rest of mankind,
May now and then prove to thy interest blind;
But the mass of thy children are fill'd with a spirit
That will always secure the fair soil they inherit.
Sounds of music strike my ear!
There, my joyous Chums appear,
Beck'ning me to come away
Joining in their festive play.
Happy boys -- the dance is in it
If you cannot wait one minute,
See my patron with good nature,
Smiling on my New-Year's paper
See his hand, already FUMBLING!
Soon the shiners will be TUMBLING.
Bless your honour -- Now my hearties,
I'll be one in all your parties.
LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!!!
January 1st, 1811.