Kentucky Gazette

MISCELLANEOUS.

FROM THE PORT FOLIO.

ODE TO POVERTY.

THOU squalid, sharp-nos'd, lank-jawed, hawk-eyed creature!
What business hast thou squinting in my face?
So detest thy look, thy ev'ry feature,
That I ne'er think of thee, without grimace.
Then why or wherefore dost thou come bewitching
Each thing I love? to water turn my grog,
And stealing (so insidious!) to my kitchen,
Annihilate each article of prog?
The dollars, that once jingled in my pocket,
Now by thy curs'd art so scarce are grown,
That if thou hadst a wooden heart, 'twould shock it;
Nay, though thy heart were made of stone.
But not alone of this am I complaining;
Nature herself's so altered by thy power,
That fields and meadows, each gay tint disdaining
No more to me display the gaudy flower.
Tho' late with rural charms each thought delighting,
The maids and milk pails, now no more can please;
The billing turtle-doves to me seem fighting,
And gentle zephyr turn'd the boreal breeze.
The din around is louder than the city's,
The pigs and geese are worse than carts and drays;
The birds that chaunt on ev'ry spray their ditties
Are to my ears a flock of screaming jays.
Where Schuylkill winds along in soft meanders
I see no pebbly beach, no crystal wave:
His swans to me look very much like ganders,
And nought but mud his sordid waters lave.
And worse than all the rest, my friends don't know me;
But hold their heads so high with haughty stare,
That there's not one of them whom thou canst show me,
To whose identity I'd like to swear.
E'en Chloe, who erewhile so condescending,
Would sit upon my knee with smiles so meek,
Now frowning, says, "in troth you need much mending."
And scarce would suffer me to touch her cheek.
Old Noll who always was the true quintessence
Of honest fellows—sprightly, gay, and clever,
When I approach the bar-room, shuns my presence,
As if he thought I had the yellow fever.
His nose was comely once, and finely florid;
His cheeks possess'd of health the roseate hue,
With pimples cover'd now, his nose is horrid,
And, to my eyes at least, his cheeks are blue.
Tim Staytape too, who rigg'd me out to cozen
The hearts of ladies fair, with witching looks,
By whose attraction, Delias by the dozen,
Flew to my arms, like school-boys to their books.
E'en Tim himself is chang'd; no more he capers!
For me to cut the cloth, or wield the shears;
No more that certain cure for spleen or vapors,
"The splendid coat or vest his bosom cheers."
I cannot say how ugly I think Tim is:
I hate him as I do the doctor's pill!
His aspect that was once so smiling, grim is!
His face grows even longer than his bill!
But as I'm sick of thee, and don't love railing,
And would not call thee an indecent name,
(I never was accused of that failing)
I will not say a word more in thy blame.
Yet, would it not vex even Job's meek nature?
And I, thou know'st, possess not half his grace:
Then what, thou sharp-nos'd, lank-jaw'd, hawk-eyed creature!
What business hast thou squinting in my face?