FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ.
To all the young belles who enliven our scene, From ripe five-and-forty, to blooming fifteen; Who racket at routs, and who rattle at plays, Who visit, and fidget, and dance out their days: Who conquer all hearts, with a shot from the eye, Who freeze with a frown, and who thaw with a sigh :To all those bright youths who embellish the age, Whether young boys, or old boys, or namskull or sage: Whether DULL DOGS, who cringe at their mistress' feet, Who sigh and who whine, and who try to look sweet; Whether TOUGH DOGS, who squat down stock still in a row And play wooden gentlemen stuck up for show;
Or SAD DOGS, who glory in running their rigs,
Now dash in their sleighs, and now whirl in their gigs;
Who riot at Dyde's on imperial champaign,
And then scour our city-the peace to maintain;
To whoe'er it concerns or may happen to meet, By these presents their worships I lovingly greet. NOW KNOW YE, that I, PINDAR COCKLOFT, esquire, Am laureate, appointed at special desire ;
A censor, self-dubb'd, to admonish the fair,
And tenderly take the town under my care.
I'm a ci-devant beau, cousin Launcelot has said-
A remnant of habits long vanish'd and dead :
But still, though my heart dwells with rapture sublime,
On the fashions and customs which reign'd in my prime,
I yet can perceive-and still candidly praise,
Some maxims and manners of these "latter days;"
Still own that some wisdom and beauty appears,
Though almost entomb'd in the rubbish of years.
No fierce nor tyrannical cynic am I,
Who frown on each foible I chance to espy;
Who pounce on a novelty, just like a kite,
And tear up a victim through malice or spite :
Who expose to the scoffs of an ill natured crew,
A trembler for starting a whim that is new.
No, no-I shall cautiously hold up my glass,
To the sweet little blossoms who heedlessly pass;
My remarks not too pointed to wound or offend,
Nor so vague as to miss their benevolent end :
Each innocent fashion shall have its full sway;
New modes shall arise to astonish Broadway;
Red hats and red shawls still illumine the town,
And each belle, like a bon-fire, blaze up and down.
Fair spirits, who brighten the gloom of our days,
Who cheer this dull scene with your heavenly rays,
No mortal can love you more firmly and true,
From the crown of the head, to the sole of your shoe.
I'm old fashion'd, tis true-but still runs in my heart
That affectionate stream, to which youth gave the start.
More calm in its current-yet potent in force;
Less ruffled by gales-but still stedfast in course.
Though the lover, enraptured, no longer appears,→
Tis the guide and the guardian enlighten'd by years.
All ripen'd, and mellow'd, and soften'd by time,
The asperities polish'd which chafed in my prime;
I am fully prepared for that delicate end,
The fair one's instructor, companion and friend.
-And should I perceive you in fashion's gay dance,
Allured by the frippery mongers of France,
Expose your weak frames to a chill wintry sky
To be nipp'd by its frosts, to be torn from the eye;
My soft admonitions shall fall on your ear—
Shall whisper those parents to whom you are dear
Shall warn you of hazards you heedlessly run,
And sing of those fair ones whom frost has undone ;
Bright suns that would scarce on our horizon dawn,
Ere shrouded from sight, they were early withdrawn:
Gay sylphs, who have floated in circles below,
As pure in their souls, and as transient as snow;
Sweet roses, that bloom'd and decay'd to my eye,
And of forms that have flitted and pass'd to the sky.
But as to those brainless pert bloods of our town,
Those sprigs of the ton who run decency down;
Who lounge and who lout, and who booby about,
No knowledge within, and no manners without;
Who stare at each beauty with insolent eyes;
Who rail at those morals their fathers would prize;
Who are loud at the play--and who impiously dare
To come in their cups to the routs of the fair;
I shall hold up my mirror, to let them survey
The figures they cut as they dash it away:
Should my good humored verse no amendinent produce,
Like scare crows, at least, they shall still be of use;
I shall stitch them, in effigy, up in my rhyme,
And hold them aloft through the progress of time,
As figures of fun to make the folks laugh,
Like that bh of an angel erected by Paff,
"What shtops," as he says," all de people what come;
"What smiles on dem all, and what peats on de trum."
NO. IV. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1807.
Perhaps there is no class of men to which the curious and literary are more indebted than travellers;-I mean travel-mongers, who write whole volumes about themselves, their horses and their servants, interspersed with anecdotes of inn-keepers,-droll sayings of stage-drivers, and interesting memoirs of the lord knows who. They will give you a full account of a city, its manners, customs, and manufactures; though perhaps all their knowledge of it was obtained by a peep from their innwindows, and an interesting conversation with the landlord or the waiter. America has had its share of these buzzards; and in the name of my countrymen I return them profound thanks for the compliments they have lavished upon us, and the va
|