Who opens our exchanges, one by one,
And reads our editorials ere they're done?
Who gives us items, sparkling, fresh, and new,
But ne'er, by any turn of fortune, true?
Who comments on our mode of writing makes,
And tenderly announces our mistakes?
Who occupies, with sweet, unconscious air,
Three-fourths of all the room we have to spare,
And with a cheerful, love-begetting smile,
Kills his own time, and murders us meanwhile?