WHILE, o'er the earth's expanse, the golden ray
Of FREEDOM forces its refulgent way -
Diffuses all its dearest blessings round -
Humbles tyrannic insolence to the ground -
Cheers the low cottage, and with soothing smiles,
The whole existence of mankind geguiles:
We view the prospect, with a pleased eye,
And while the bliss of Liberty descry,
We hail Columbia, as the heavenly source,
From whence these blessings have deduced their force
Ye sacred guardians! of the RIGHTS OF MAN -
Of all our bliss, each measure wisely sean,
Direct your powers to protect from wiles,
Ouyr empire's bliss, on which kind Heaven smiles:
With sacred care, with nicest justice guard,
The PRESS, - 'tis freedom's heavenly reward:
The PRESS diffuses sacred knowledge round:
And loud proclaims, the dangers that surround;
Declares each blessings, Heaven freely pours,
And FREEDOM scatters o'er COLUMBIA'S shores.

    BUT now for other things more great,
Of more importance to the state:
Of nations, Freedom, and of kings,
And such mere trifles, little things,
Let those great folks of little mind,
Exert their pens to plague mankind.
But to my verses do belong,
The sweeter flights of sublime song.

    WHEREE'ER the voice of man is found,
"CASH" - is the unremitting sound,
And every human being moves
Intent to gain the Cash he loves,
For Cash the parson prays and preaches,
For Cash our Congress make long speeches,
For Cash the robber prowls the streets,
For Cash the speculator cheats,
For Cash the rake and coxcomb marry,
Tho' love and happiness miscarry,
For Cash the sailor ploughs the deep
Secure, were death and terror sleep -
Pray who can wonder then to find
The itch has found a NEWS BOY's mind;
And that with all the world beside,
He should float down the chinking tide.

    AH! generous Sir! well pleas'd I stand,
And bless the openings of your hand.
Each Saturday, thro' shine and shower,
I've bro't the MUSEUM to your door,
Which spreads like Hesper's morning beam,
Of sense and wit a feeble gleam;
And tho' sometimes behind a cloud,
Truth scarcely shines thro' falsehood's shroud,
I cannot answer for the evil -
I'm nothing more than - PRINTER'S DEVIL -

    NOW, Sir, farewell! I'd tell you more -
But see! thro' yonder opening door,
A smiling Fair One seems to stand,
With Silver glitt'ring in her hand -
Heaven bless you, Sir - May you still prove
The joys of life, of health and love;
May all ill-fortune kindly flee you,
'Till I next NEW-YEAR come to see you.