Poetry Archives

Though skilled in Latin and in Greek,
And earning fifty cents a week,
Such knowledge, and the income, too,
Should teach you better what to do:
    The meanest drudges, kept in pay,
    Can pocket fifty cents a day.

Why stay in such a tasteless land,
Where all must on a level stand,
(Excepting people, at their ease,
Who choose the level where they please:)
    See Irving gone to Britain’s court
    To people of another sort,
    He will return, with wealth and fame,
    While Yankees hardly know your name.

Lo! he has kissed a Monarch’s—hand!
Before a prince I see him stand,
And with the glittering nobles mix,
Forgetting times of seventy-six,
While you with terror meet the frown
Of Bank Directors of the town,
    The home-made nobles of our times,
    Who hate the bard, and spurn his rhymes.

Why pause?—like Irving, haste away,
To England your addresses pay;
And England will reward you well,
    Of British feats, and British arms,
    The maids of honor, and their charms.

Dear bard, I pray you, take the hint,
In England what you write and print,
Republished here in shop, or stall,
Will perfectly enchant us all:
    It will assume a different face,
    And post your name at every place,
    From splendid domes of first degree
    Where ladies meet, to sip their tea;
    From marble halls, where lawyers plead,
    Or Congress-men talk loud, indeed,
    To huts, where evening clubs appear,
    And ’squires resort—to guzzle Beer.