From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices,
Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang,
And, loud amidst their universal noises,
From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.
I hear the Editor, who from his office
Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff,
And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers,
Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.
The tumult of each saqued, and charming maiden,
The idle talk that sense and reason drowns,