THE BOOK OF ODES

Blest is the man who shuns the place

Where Demo's love to meet,

Who scorns to gnaw their bread and cheese,

And hates their small beer treat:

But in the glare of splendid halls

Doth place his whole delight,

And there by day eats force-meat balls,

And roasted hogs by night.

He, like some thrifty pumpkin vine,

Near Hartford that doth grow,

Shall creep, and spread, and twist, and twine,

And shade the weeds below.

Puff'd by all dunces far and near

He'll swell to station high,

While Democrats confus'd appear

As he rides rattling by.

Not so the man of vulgar birth,

And Democratic phiz;

Want, toil, and every plague on earth,

Shall certainly be his.

Poor as a snake, and ever vile

Shall his condition be,

Who to the men of royal style

Neglects to bend the knee.

He, with the herd of little note,

May starve on bread and cheese,

And soon shall be without a coat

Or sent to pay jail-fees.