A New-Year’s Ode.
Recitative.
Old battle-array, big with horror is fled,
And olive-robed peace again lifts up her head.
Sing, ye Muses, Tobacco, the blessing of peace;
Was ever a nation so blessed as this?
Air.
When summer suns grow red with heat,
Tobacco tempers Phœbus’ ire,
When wintry storms around us beat,