Sipping their Seltzer and Hock, and smoking a mild cigar?
Who are the friends of the poor! The writers without a name,
Who scribble at so much a column, whatever the Editors please,
Working the many-mouthed bellows which blew up the war to a flame,
And pleading for rapine and blood, whilst they lounge in their clubs at their ease!
Methinks we have done enough for that turbaned goat, the Turk,
Who spits when a Christian meets him, and would spit, if he dared, in his face;
Methinks we have done enough, for 'tis but a thankless work
To rivet with care on a beautiful land, the clutch of a barbarous race.
Whether they wag a saucy tongue, or stealthily work with the pen,