Your lodging is in garret high;
But where your best possessions lie,
Yourselves know best—and Him on high.
And have you had a foreign bribe?—
Then, why so lean?—shall we describe
The leanness of your honest tribe?
Why did you not with Tories join
To hold the British king divine—
And all his mandates very fine?
Then had your faces shined with fat—
Then had you worn the gold-laced hat—
And—said your lessons—very pat.—
Your lives are, now, continual trial,
Existence, constant self-denial,
To keep down some, who would be royal.
For public good you wear out types,
For public good you get dry wipes—
For public good you may get—stripes.
One half your time in Federal court,
On libel charge—you're made a sport—
You pay your fees—nor dare retort.—
All pleasure you are sworn to shun;
Are always cloistered, like a nun,
And glad to hide from Ragman's dun.—
All night you sit by glare of lamp,
Like Will o' Wisp in vapoury swamp,
To write of armies and the camp.—
You write—compile—compile and write,
'Till you have nearly lost your sight—
Then off to jail; and so, good night.