|
Carrier's Address to the NEW YEAR.
Dedicated to the Patrons of the
POLITICAL BAROMETER.
|
GOOD morning EIGHTEEN HUNDRED FIVE,
You find your subjects all alive,
Except some few who've dead and gone
Where you and I must be anon.
Receive, dread power! the low congee,
Of rich and poor, of bond and free,
Who, cap in hand (sign of obedience)
Crowd round your throne to swear allegiance;
While I, your laureat bard, presume,
My vive voce fiddle to tune,
And, regal minstrel like, upon it.
Present you with a birth-day sonnet.
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.
Tis likewise fit I should explain,
The prospect, as begins your reign;
(For how the dickens should you know it,
Unless 'tis told you by your poet?)
In Europe Bonaparte of France,
Thrums up for Johnny Bull to dance;
And Bull his English bagpipe tunes,
To fit Moosieur with rigadoons:
The Russian rouses up his bear,
And bids him for the chase prepare:
Don Spaniard too his mule bestrides,
And, cheek by jowl, with Napi rides;
And Sweden treats with scorn and huft,
All emperors made of common stuff;
The powers around impatient wait,
To see who wins, and who gets beat.
We'll pass the hot West-Indian regions,
Were War arrays his sooty legions,
Where Cuffees rule the battling field,
And Sambues royal sceptres wield.
Thus much in brief detail'd, I come
To take a view of things at home;
And 'tis with joy I can relate
|
|
|
|
They're in a highly prosperous state;
Though late we've had some toil, I know,
To keep the Feds in status quo.
(The Feds, great sir, are form'd of stuff,
Your Honour'd better keep aloof;
For if admitted near your throne,
'Tis ten to one they have you down
And clip your nob; so fond are they
Of grandeur, pomp, and regal sway;
And should they influence once obtain,
'Tis hard to get it back again)
Though now by fate and fortune's will,
They're swiftly climbing down the hill;
And if no hole is found to drop 'em,
They'll soon be sprawling at the bottom.
Last Spring -- attend and you shall hear
The sequel of a story queer --
Last Spring, when we prepar'd to make
A supreme ruler for our state,
The Feds, in hopes to thwart our plan,
All rallied round a different man;
Forsook the bravest of their leaders,
And join'd a handful of seceders:
Puff'd their new chieftan to the skies,
So brave, so worthy, and so wise;
With libelous handbills throng'd the mails,
And stuff'd their prints with slanderous tales,
Laid their old principles at rest,
As things that would not bear the test,
Or tawdry goods that wear not well:
--Like Pindar's razors -- made to sell --
But when their chief had been defeated,
And from the field fo fame retreated,
|
|
|
They wheel'd about and roughly us'd him,
xx and curs'd, kick'd and abus'd him,
And loud for his destructions pray'd--
Thus, Judas kiss'd, and then betray'd.
In eastern states their plots, too, fail'd
When they our Union bands assail'd.
And, promp'd by discord and sedition,
Rais'd high the standard of division;
Which vex'd them to so great degree
That they "committed a xx;"
So Russel tells us: meaning by't.
That they all hang'd themselves, in spite;
Strong proof of adage long renown'd--
Those born to hang will ne'er be drown'd--
But if for suicide an excuse is,
Their desperate case the crime reduces;
Of late they stood on grandeur's tower.
And now they're quite the xx of power:
Routed in field, their strong holds won,
New-Hampshire lost, and Boston gone;
Cross'd in whate'er they aim to do;
Of eighteen states they have but two,
And these, save some few hills and rough rocks,
Would scarcely fill your Worship's snuff-box.
Besides, they've every method tried,
Storm'd stamp'd and swore, revil'd and lied;
Their Posts, Recorders, and Correctors,
Which stand their bullies and protectors;
Their Waynes, Aristides, and Huares,
Who sung such trite, long dismal tunes;
Their xx, their Parks, their Brownsons, hearty.
The licens'd slanderers of their party,
All in the mighty work united,
And minor blackguard priests invited
Who join the cry with yell stentorum,
As though they'd drive us all before 'em,
(Thus curs, when bull-dogs roar sonorous,
Trot on behind and yelp in chorus)
At Presidential influence hooted,
And Governmental measures scouted.
Defam'd the rulers of our nation,
Malign'd the men in public station,
Resisted law, subverted order,
Seiz'd truth, and into xx draw'd her;
But all in vain; the more they fought
To bring us and our cause to naught,
The more the Fates their works oppose,
The lower they sunk the higher we rose,
'Till they, worn down with drubs and beatings,
Fell, like old Saul, on their own weapons.
But I too long, dread soverign! held you,
Though half their capers I've not told you;
You'll find them out before you leave 'em,
And their deserts, I hope, will give 'em;
To other scenes I now must drive--
Good morning, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED FIVE
|
|
