Henry Livingston, Jr.
Carrier Addresses

Poughkeepsie Journal, 1787
And now the end of all this clatter
Is but a small and trifling matter;
A puny six pence or a shilling
From willing souls to souls as willing.

Poughkeepsie Journal, 1788
And now our good patrons pray melt into pity
Nor expect at our hands a more dolorous ditty;
For our muse, all exhausted, declares on her honor
We ought not in conscience ask any more from her;
She blows too her fingers, and pleads the cold weather,
And vows her ideas are frozen together.
But still we believe not a syllable true
But that the fly baggage has New-Year in view;
And means with her sisters, those tight pretty lasses,
To romp on the top of the airy parnassus;
Or else with Apollo, the graces, and Venus,
Sly Cupid, fierce Mars, and the jolly Silenus,
To tipple stew'd Quaker at Bacchus's hall,
And there in fandango out caper us all. ---

Political Barometer, 1803
But 'tis time that I bid you good bye, till next year,
By wishing you happiness, peace and good cheer;
To the ladies, the charms both of form and of face,
Expression, attraction, and each nameless grace,
Their tempers benign, ting'd with sentiment's fire,
Galants whom they love and the swains they admire;
To the clergy meek charity, unmix'd with pride,
And something to wake us on Sunday, beside;
To the farmer fine crops; to the merchant much trade;
To the sexton small use for the mattock and spade;
To physicians few patients; to lawyers light fees;
But to printers, the shiners, as oft as you please;
In short, to conclude my nonsensical song
To all, what they wish, if they wish nothing wrong.

Political Barometer, 1804
This world alas! what woes await!
How shifting are the scenes of Fate!
Let empires tell, now whelm'd in dust,
Which once frown'd o'er the world, august.
Imperial Latium! where art thou!
Where Athens, Phebes, and Carthage, now!
Palmyra, Tyre, Euphemia, where!--
Gone like the shadowy forms of air!
Thus shall proud London's towers decay;
Thus Paris fleet in smoke away:
Even now, in Dessolation's car,
Sits there enthron'd, vindictive War,
His red sword drawn, his standard rais'd,
And ne'er more fierce his firebrand blaz'd!
And here, in these more favor'd climes,
Where Peace her hand with Plenty joins,
Where equal laws and rights are known,
Nor curst with king nor crown nor throne,
Time's mouldering touch shall waste away
The noblest works the Arts display;
Where York's fair turrets beaming rise,
And Penn's gilt fanes pervade the skies,
The fox shall bark, the wolf shall howl,
The raven croak, and hoot the owl;
There, brambles, briars, and hem'ocks grow,
And serpents hiss the ests below;
While some dull pool's stench'd water laves
The surface of ten thousand graves!

Political Barometer, 1805
And first, 'tis right I should inform you
Of past events, thereby to warn you
To shun the rocks, and sand-banks quick,
On which your predecessor split.
He, like most men who grasp at power,
The loaves and fishes to devour,
Commenc'd his reign with mildest sway,
Swept snows, and melted ice away,
Call'd southern gales, on balmy wing,
And gave the flowery charms of Spring;
With verdant fields and shadowy bowers,
The grove's sweet songs, and Summer's showers,
The various fruits which Autumn yields,
And with rich harvests crown'd our fields.
But when the heights of fame he'd gain'd,
And all he hop'd or wish'd, obtain'd,
He then began to play the despot,
(Yet still declar'd his laws oppress'd not)
Commanded surly Borcas forth,
With his black forces from the north,
And bade the stern, relentless hosts,
Spread desolation round our coasts;
And when we beg'd he'd not thus hack us,
He sneer'd and flap'd his back-sides at us:
But soon he met a vengeful doom,
And we, last night, danc'd o'er his tomb.

Political Barometer, 1807
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.

Poughkeepsie Advertiser, 1809
But no more of this stuff, and away with this pother;
We've holiday now, at least holiday's brother:
Lead the belle to the ball, and the maid to the altar,
Give grief sherry-wine and old care a rough halter.
Let your hand find your picket, and money, your hand,
A two-shilling piece, Sir, a fine Christian land.

Poughkeepsie Journal, 1811
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.


Poughkeepsie Journal, 1815
HONOR'D patrons here I stand,
With this morsel in my hand!
Lowly bending I present it,
Honor'd patrons don't resent it.

I'm no candidate for fame,
On the wide poetic plain;
Simple facts I've simply stated,
As by Journalists related:
One plain truth fresh from my heart,
I with confidence impart-

None can be more pleas'd than I,
When o'erflows your cup of joy:
Sweetest sleep attend your bed:
Azure skies above your head:
Coffers lin'd with well-got welath,
Honest fame, and rosy health;
Faithful friends surround and bless you,
Beauty hast'ning to caress you:
Happy thro' th' ensuing year-
-Little muse thy lay forbear.

Poughkeepsie Journal, 1816
I've told my tale, I'm tired to death
And cease - to take a little breath.

"That you're fatigu'd, no doubt is true,
"And we, good lad, are tired too:
"Such as it is, your new years song
"Is very dull, and very long;
"With careful nursing it may live
"To see th' ensuing day arrive,
"Then down to sink in endless night
"Far from the snarling critic's spite.
"With no regret this mite is thrown,
"Your pure intentions well are known.
"Go, gentle Tyro, go your way,
"And pass with bouyant heart the day."

Poughkeepsie Journal, 1819
Believe me, dear patrons, I have wand'red too far,
Without any compass, or planet or star;
My dear native village I scarcely can see
So I'll hie to my hive like the tempest-tost bee.
Hail home! sacred home! to my soul ever dear;
Abroad may be wonders but rapture is here.
My future ambition will never soar higher
Than the clean brushed hearth and convivial fire;
Here I lounge at my pleasure, and bask at my ease,
Full readily sooth'd, and desirous to please,
As happy myself as I happy can be,
I wish all the circle as happy as me.
But hark what a clatter! the Jolly bells ringing,
The lads and the lasses so jovially singing,
Tis New-Years they shout and then haul me along
In the mdist of their merry-make Juvenile throng;
But I burst from their grasp: unforgetful of duty
To first pay obeisence to wisdom and Beauty,
My conscience and int'rest unite to command it,
And you, my kind PATRONS, deserve & demand it.
On your patience to trespass no longer I dare,
So bowing, I wish you a Happy New Year.

Poughkeepsie Journal, 1823
Festive strains salute my ear,
Strains that hail the new-born year;
In the boys what cheerful faces!
Girls display a thousand graces.
Merchants quit their stores awhile:
Stately matrons deign to smile.
Age itself forgets its care,
On this birthday of the year.

I alas! must see all this,
But forego the beck'ning bliss;
Duty calls me to your feet
With this reeking votive sheet:

Oft before you have I stood
Bending low in gratitude:
Pardon this my last endeavor,
To obtain your smiles and favor.

I could mention winter's terrors
Speak of summer's torrid fervors,
Greet you with a thousand storms,
Dangers in a thousand forms,
Ever frowning in the way
On the news deliver day.

But 'tis neither fair or witty
Thus to urge my PATRONS' pity;
Pity! no, I here disclaim it,
You yourselves wont let me name it.
On her MERIT rests thy Muse,
Grace her kindly if you choose.


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