The Massachusetts Spy

WORCESTER,

Wednesday, January 1, 1823.

We tender to our readers our hearty wishes not only for a happy new year to them, but for their health, prosperity, and content, to the end of it:--And to those who look for a salutation of a different kind, however indifferent may be its manner, we subjoin the following Address

TO THE PATRONS OF THE MASSACHUSETTS SPY.

Another year!--So swift Time's wing,
That Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
Like hurrying clouds, flit from our view,
And keep the year forever New.

Another year! And may it prove
A peaceful year to all.--We love
Here, in our course, to pause awhile,
And view the past, an hour beguile
With joys imagin'd yet to come,
Till fancy, wearied, rests at home.

And these are feelings all possess--.
The graver, more--the gayer, less;
But most prefer a livelier strain
Than feeling dictates.--'Then, again,
To patrons, friends, abroad and near,
We wish the new, a happy year.--

Once, when "the times were out of joint,"
The dullest wight his lay could point,
When Corsica's meteor blaz'd on high,
Cov'ring with fitful light the sky;--
When our own shores with battle rung,
And many a valorous feat was sung;--
When shields were won by proclamation,
And honours, by capitulation;--
When a brave Chief, who never vaunted,
Soldiers, "in pairs and single," wanted,
To pluck the "laurels yet ungather'd,"
(As all and ev'ry have and hath heard,)
But, all-accoutred, stay'd his hand,
At the dread bugle's loud command;--
When, mid the roar of hostile cannon,
Statesmen discuss'd the sine qua non,
And (dolts! as R-- well could tell 'em,)
Offer'd the status ante bellum,
The "unending" Mississippi
(Ye gods, let not this treason slip ye!)
A sacrifice, ignoble souls!
For right to fish on British shoals;
(As will appear by reference
T' a letter written then, and since,
Dated at Paris, which, of late
Appears, was "done in Duplicate."

But times have chang'd, et nos mutamur,
(A certain poet hath said the same or
The line; and now, so poor, life's state:
That men, "at most," but vegetate
Like "cabbages" (so saith a sage,
Wise by philosophy and age.)
No warrior's plumes nod o'er our path,
Nor bugle speaks in tones of wrath,
Nor proclamations---Stay !---M'Duffie.
Cumming, a pardon from each of ye.
Thanks to these gallant chevaliers!
Honours attend the future years
Of men who may compare well with
The General, Alexander S.
Of men so skill'd in use of pistol.
That equally they hit and miss'd well;
Who, steel'd with valour all their own,
And arm'd with bullet and Cologne,
(A weapon fitted, by its "odour,"
For those who loathe the smell of powder,)
So bravely sought the battle field,
"Resolv'd to conquer or" to yield;
And once, and twice, and thrice contended
Ere the momentous strife was ended;
Now practising a convolution
T' expose the back to meet contusion;
Then bending under honour's load,
Both heroes down, "squat like a toad;"
Until, at length, to make an end on't,
(Like Plaintiff, tir'd; and faint, Defendant,)
They both agreed a random shot.
Which, by some devious course, a spot
On M'Duff's further shoulder hit,
Was quantum sufficit---and thus they quit.
So fix'd have been the nation's eyes
Upon these gallants' bold emprise,
That all the vast affairs of State
Have nearly been forgot, of late.
But the great Council of the nation
Has now its annual disputation
Just enter'd on---and all are bent
On making the next President.
Meantime, with Monroe at their head,
By his incautious Message led,
The midnight plotters o' th' Tariff,
Finding our fright begins to wear off,
Keep their old project still in view.
"To tax the many for the few!"
Traitors! who dare attempt to fill
The Treasury 'gainst the people's will!
Intending, all the time, no doubt,
When full, to take the money out'
There's still another scheme afoot,
Threat'ning to ruin, branch and root,
The wholesome plan, (so long pursu'd,
It must be for the people's good,)
To spend our cash to-day, and borrow
To meet th' expenses of to-morrow.---
"Let us alone!"---The cry, we fear,
Will scarcely be regarded here.
Already publick plunderers tremble,
With fears which they can ill dissemble,
To find our Representatives,
At this late period of their lives,
Asking, with spectacles on nose,
Where all the people's money goes;
And General Cocke, with flaming jacket,
In Treasury rooms makes direful racket,
While, with an air and face portentous,
He gives his dark suspicions vent, thus:
Resolv'd, that a select Committee
Perambulate the streets o' th' City,
Inquire what Lots did once belong
To Uncle Sam—what, for a song,
And what, for value, have been sold—
By whom—to whom—who took the gold—
With pow'r, that nothing may escape us,
To send for persons and for papers."
Time urges on his swift career,
Nor turns our prosing lay to hear.
Our "Devil" waits*—and much too long,
He says, we've made our New-Year's song;
And "Out of copy!" archly said,
Snaps our dull story's slender thread.
Once more, then, (all we've time for, here,)
To you, to all, a Happy Year!
January 1, 1823.

* Most readers have heard of the "Printer's Devil," and therefore will not be alarmed.