The Virginian

POETRY.

Christmas Address of the Carrier of the Columbia Telescope, to his Patrons.

A merry Christmas to ye all.
Men and women, great and small;
Cradles of each denomination,
Cottages of rank and station,
From the thundering Senate hall
Down to thy kitchen,—here's to all!

No scholar I—but, as I waddle
From door to door, I've in my noddle
Some funny thoughts, which, if you're willing,
I'll sell you cheap—say for a shilling;
Pray don't refuse, for all the trade is
Sharing gentlemen and ladies!

This Christmas day, since I'm Quorum,
And all the world turns out teetotum,
I'll ope my budget, and let out
The minutes I've had to think about.

The mountain labors dreadfully.
—Out pops—a mouse! 'Tis so with me,
My thoughts are great, though to express 'em,
"Aye, there's the rub,"—let wise folks guess 'em.

My budget holds a fund of things,
To fit all heads—from serfs to kings;
And if perhaps, a spark of wit
Comes out,—I prithee laugh at it:
I wield no lash to scourge a friend.
To keep good fellowship's my end.

"Have at ye!" then, men and ladies,
Whate'er your calling or your trade is:
I am your cousin,—so excuse
The carrier and his merry muse,
This year is drawing to an end,
The next a happier night may lend
To some whose sky has long been dark,
While "storms have wreck'd their little bark"

And some, now high on Fortune's wheel,
Who, slaves, at fashion's altar kneel;
May soon resign the golden store,
And feel how hard 'tis to be poor.

Are ye a maiden rather old?
Don't worship cats.—take snuff, or scold.
For, if you would have men for beaux,
You must resign your snuff and cats.

Are ye a Miss, just come from school?
Write on your heart this golden rule;
Fashion has giv'n the right to man
To seek for bliss wherever he can.
'Tis wanton round each flower he meets,
And, like the bee, purloins its sweets.

He holds it as an inborn duty
To worship at the court of beauty,
To steal from lips that vital fire
Which kindles love, hope, joy, desire.

Then guard your heart, for many a snare
Allures the dove that nestles there.

Are ye a widow, handsome, gay?
Throw not your morning charms away;
The tear wipe off—the deep sigh smother,
One husband dead.—look to another!

Are ye a bachelor, rich and gray?
Just hang yourself or give away
Your wither'd form to some young maid
Who'll have it most in silence laid!

Are ye a buck who loves to dash
Through all the modish walks of fashion?
Just pay your bills, lace not so tight,
Stay home and read good books at night:
And if you love, be true, and, may be,
It all will end with nurse and baby.

Candidates! win votes by merit,
And don't betray a want of spirit,
By cringing like a hungry dog,
And buying doubtful friends with grog.

Lawyers! don't charge too large a fee:
Fee simple should your motto be;
Fee-cundity of speech for fame,
Fee-heity your constant aim:
But, if all other fees should fail,
Turn to the best fees—fee simple sale.

Statesmen! ye who love to dabble in
Politics and faction's squabbling;
Open your eyes and shut your mouth
Preserve the freedom of the South.

Tailors! may business keep your goose
Hot and smooth and aye in use;
No cabbaging to make your broth,
But cut your coat to suit your cloth.

Printers! a new leaf turn next year.
And let your title page appear.
"The honest man, a new edition.
Revised—corrected—no impression."

Poets! ye who mount jackasses,
'Stead of the blooded-wing'd Pegasus;
Scribble no more, hang up your lyre,
And put your poems in the fire.

Cuddlers, tinkers, butchers, cryers.
Grocers, binders, wheelwrights, dyers
Merchants, planters, speculators.
Carpenters, and cooks and hatters;
Doctors, clerks, apothecaries;
And gentlemen whose callings vary;
Excuse me, sirs, if now I call
To wish a merry day to all;
If you'll reward me for my pains,
Next year I'll muster all my brains,
And try if I can better please your
Fancy with my rhyme and measure,
—So I remain with kind regard,
Your humble servant,
BILL PRITCHARD.