Richmond Enquirer

From the New Hampshire Statesman.

We have accidentally blundered upon the following Song, which was said or sung, or might have been said or sung, at the Celebration in Salem, on Thursday last, of the two hundredth anniversary of the settlement of that ancient and honorable town.

TIME'S CHANGES.

Tune—"When this old cap was new."

When this old town was new—

Two since two hundred years—

Our people were but few,

And by story, plain appears.

But now we're most a city.

With buildings not a few,

And all's grown vastly pretty,

Since this old town was new.

No Churches then we had,

To captivate the sense;

Our whole church funds—how sad

Were only Peter's pence:

But now our turrets rise,

And point to Heaven the view,

All fed with rich supplies,

Since this old town was new.

No Lawyers then were known—

For strife had not begun—

Years saw the shrewd dull tour,

While there was only one:

But now we've four and twenty,

All in a fiddler's row—

And cause of quarrels plenty,

Since two hundred years ago.

No Doctors then gave physic—

As now the doctor's trade is—

Then gout, and rheum, and phthisic,

Were cured by good old ladies.

But now we have a whole yoke,

And teams of M. D's plenty—

So common they're an old joke,

Since sixteen hundred twenty.

No Merchants then abounded

With foreign fashions rare—

Then everybody's gown did

A homespun semblance wear:

But now we're grown so topping.—

Exposed so much to view—

Our ladies have learned shopping

Since this old town was new.

No Printers then were seen—

The only black art known

Was witches' hocus-pocus main,

And wizards' cloaking moan:

But now the craft's not lacking

In men both "good and true"—

Of course they need more backing

Than when this old town was new.

No Banks were then the rage—

Save banks of new-found land—

'Twas then the iron age,

With no spare cash in hand

'Tis now the land of promise—

As Perkins' plates will show—

We'd no such ready commerce

Two hundred years ago.

When this old town was new,

No Mill Dam was a brewing—

That frightful theme, in view

Of golden hopes, and ruin;

But now the prospect's fair

For damming at a blow—

A sight which was but rare

Two hundred years ago.

Now lest I should be d—d

For dabbling thus in rhyme—

Or you should think I'd hawked

The subject, or the time;

I'll thus conclude my ditty,

And bid you all adieu—

E'en this I shouldn't write ye

When this old town was new.