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THE NEWS-CARRIER's ADDRESS TO HIS CUSTOMERS.
Hartford, January 1, 1783.
IN England, where the poets scribble,
And thrive on flattery and libel,
A chatt'ring, poor, poetic parrot,
Deck'd with the lofty name of Laureat,
Is cull'd, and hired with sal'ry clear
Of one good hundred pounds a year,
On ev'ry New-Year's day to sing
So bright a Queen, so good a King;
To hail their George in birthday lays,
And stuff his happy ears with praise:
Till puft'd aloft in Laureat ode,
The oaf believes himself a god,
Dreams all his foes before him quaking,
And scarce believes Cornwallis taken.
But in this land, as fates befall,
Where verse comes slow, and pay is small,
Where folks have other rules to chuse by,
Your only Laureat is the News-Boy;
Who ev'ry New-Year's morn, in time
Hands round his little page of rhyme,
Collects his pence from hands propitious,
And pays the ballance in good wishes.
Yet he, tho' young in years and name,
With pleasure views his Country's fame;
Beholds the happy land secure
In freedom and imperial power,
That freedom earn'd by foes repell'd,
In many a bright, but dreadful field,
Where British pride avail'd no more,
But fled from troops it scorn'd before;
Beholds our Chief's and Statesmen's name
Above all Greek and Roman fame;
Sees foreign realms afford us aid,
And credit rise from taxes paid;
Sees Science tune th'immortal lays,
And Genius rip'ning into praise;
Beholds the foe our deeds revere,
And learn humanity by fear:
While now no fires of battle rise,
Nor desolation spreads the skies;
Their weaken'd troops from arms retreat,
To guard their fortresses and fleet,
Their breasts disturb'd with anxious fears,
And all th' alarms of war are theirs.
And oh, to give these troubles end,
May white-rob'd Peace from heav'n descend!
Before her War's grim horrors yield,
And Carnage quit the sanguine field;
No terrors call with dire alarms
The peaceful lab'rer forth to arms,
But safe beneath auspicious skies,
The unmolested harvest rise.
Then Trade shall catch the fav'ring gale,
O'er ev'ry ocean pour the sail,
And plenteous load our freighted strands,
With fruitful stores of foreign lands:
While unborn ages joyful see,
The Empire great, and blest, and free.
So sings your bard and sings delighted,
In lofty strain, like Laureat * Whitehead;
Attempts to tune the various lay,
Fond of his country's praise—and pay;
Hopes for your smiles, and bowing down t' ye,
Trusts his kind Customers and their bounty.