Alexandria Daily Gazette, Commercial & Political

From the U. S. Gazette.
The annoyance which we often suffer from
the nocturnal excursions of itinerant Grind-
ers of Musick, is truly distressing. The
following imitation of the Scottish dialect,
taken from the Boston Anthology, must we
think, be gratifying to our readers.

TO A HAND ORGAN.

Out on your noise, ye blastit wight,
That breaks my slumbers ilka night,
Grinding your tunes for very spite
Through thick and thin!
Ye'd make a Christian swear outright
To hear your din.

Sure ye must be some smoutie ghost
Let loose frae hell's infernal cost;
Ane o' auld Clootie's muckle host,
An' yelpin choir,
Sic as he keeps to skelp and roast
Wi' brunstane fire:

Did ye but ken the pangs I feel
To lay and list your cursed squeel,
Ye wad na grind anither peal
Sae harsh and deep;
But gang in pity to the deil,
An' let me sleep.

There is na musick in your din,
Nay, sic a discord ye begin,
Ye jar the very windows in
Wi' tortured tune;
If murder be a deadly sin,
Ye'll rue it soon.

To please the deil auld Orpheus played,
And for his wife i' fiddlin paid,
On dolphin's tail Arion rade,
The billows strippin,
Baith drew the oaks frae hill to glade
By dint o' pipin.

But ye wad do thing greater still:
Your noise would drown a water mill,
Ye'd scare the woods and split the hill,
Sae great your power;
And any mortal wight ye'd kill
In half an hour.

If pilgrimage to holy shrine
Wad stap your unco gratin whine,
Or souse ye in the Red Sea's brine
For aye to sleep;
Right soon I'd make the penance mine,
And think it cheap.

But if ye heed nor prayer nor spell
And winna stap that cronking yell
For a poor bard can sing or tell,
Or ony boon;
I'll try if brickbats can avail
To change your tune.