If the Os[60] should storm, and threaten my fall,
What matter? what matter? I can beat them all.
It loves, oh! how it loves to ride
On the lordly voice of the popular tide,
When every madcap speaks his mind,
Or thumps his knuckles for want of wind.
And tells how goeth the National Debt,
And why at taxes the people fret.
I never reported for one short hour,
But I loved the free Press more and more,