corn.

Columbia's sons no doubt 'twould please
To have a battery formed of cheese;
It might be called, and without flattery,
The patriotic Leland's battery.
This worthy man heard all was said,
And viewed the wonderful parade,

Then raised his voice, and thus addressed
The wond'ring crowd, which on him pressed:
"This cheese, my friends, was made in Cheshire-
Come, clear the way, why all this pressure?-
"Intended for fair freedom's son,

66

"My much beloved, my Jefferson:
"This cheese was formed to be eat,
"And for my Solomon a treat."
'Twas then presented in due form--
He gave it as a "pepper-corn."*
His free-will offering now was made,
And he in gracious smiles was paid.
What though he'd left his flock and home,
And full five hundred miles had come;
He now enjoyed rapturous scenes-
The end must sanctify the means.
What patriot son will ever dare,
With the great Leland to compare?
His fame shall sound from shore to shore,
When Mammoth Cheese shall be no more;
Millions unborn shall catch the flame,
That raised to honour Leland's name;
From east to west, from north to south,
Each patriot's offering shall come forth;
Brewers no doubt will take the hint,
As they will see it now in print,
Inspired by a reverend sir,

No doubt to me they 'll make a stir,

In presenting it to Mr. Jefferson, he said he gave it as a pepper

And quickly send on at a word,
A tun as large as Heidleberg;*
So that with store of cheese and beer,
Our President may have good cheer;
For surely it would be a pity,
Not to live well in fed'ral city.

Jack Frost, the Doctor.

When an Almighty, sovereign God,
Sent forth of late his chast'ning rod;
When Philadelphia, and York city,t
In deep distress excited pity-
When black despair, and sorrow keen,
In almost every face were seen,
When every aid from man proved vain,
And hundreds by disease were slain;
And thousands forced were to roam
In sorrow from their native home,
And many looked on all as lost;
Then came the much-loved Doctor Frost,
As messenger from heaven sent,
To ease the heart with sorrow rent.
This famous Doctor, from the Pole,
He heals the body, cheers the soul;
His magic power indeed is such,
He cures his patients with a touch.
Some doctors, as most people tell,
Make patients sick to get them well:
He ne'er was known to give emetic,
Or to administer cathartic;

This wond'rous Doctor, of great skill,
Makes use of neither bark nor pill;

*The Heidleberg tun contains 600 hogsheads.

The above piece was written a short time after the Yellow Fever had been raging in both those cities.

D

And yet you'll think it strange to say,
He cures his thousands in a day;
At his approach, by all 'tis said,
Pale sickness quickly hides his head.
Now blooming health again is seen,
With rosy cheek, and brow serene.
"Tis true, for I will not dissemble,
He sometimes makes his patients tremble;
But whilst they tremble they rejoice,
And hail him welcome with one voice.
Unlike the doctors of our day-

When cure's performed they'll have their pay-
He will not take a single shilling;

But all he asks, is to be willing
To render thanks to God above,
For all his mercies, all his love.
December 21st, 1805.

The Tyranny of Fashion.
Fashion's a tyrant, all will say,
Possessed of universal sway,
Both sexes feel her potent power,
And see her influence every hour.
In man 'tis seen from top to toe-
His hat, his coat, his vest, his shoe,
Must all just a-la-mode appear,
Or from the ladies he will sheer.
Women indeed are most opprest,
The tyrant gives them little rest,
Their heads, and heels, are often changing,
And still for novelty they're ranging.
Sometimes a hoop must swell their size,
And sometimes they a cushion prize;

Sometimes we find their waists are small,
But now we see they 've none at all;
A princess fair first found this out,
Designed to hide her shape, no doubt:
Her light loose dress, 'twas said, looked neat,
"Twas elegant, 'twas thought complete.
Then soon from Charlotte, England's Queen,
Down to the lowest maid 'twas seen;
With something new they 're always arming,
And say, variety is charming.

Their elbows naked now we view,
I'd almost said their bodies too;*
For many, filled, 'tis said, with pride,
Have laid their under clothes aside;
Such antique dress they do despise,
And nought but gauze and muslin prize.
They say they think this fashion's fine;
It may do well in southern clime;
It may please a lascivious eye,
Beneath a scorching, burning sky;
But where we find stern winter reigns,
Binding e'en rivers in his chains,
Where oft we view the drifting snow,
There cobweb clothing will not do.

When this piece was written, it was the fashion for young ladies to dress as thin as possible, with gauze and muslin; to have their arms bare nearly up to their shoulders, and also to have the upper part of their breasts bare; which fashion they adhered to even in the most severe winter weather. consequence of which, many of them took heavy colds, which brought on consumptions, and many other disorders. Physicians say, many hundreds of the most fashionable young ladies throughout the United States fell a sacrifice to this fashion. Although the mode of dress above described is not now in fashion, yet it is evident that the present dress of the ladies very light, and not suited to make them comfortable in cold weather. Would it not, therefore, be an object well worthy the attention of the most distinguished ladies in our principal cities, instead of following the fashions of foreign countries, to adopt fashions for themselves, such as would have a tendency to promote, not only their own health and happiness, but also, through their instrumentality, the health and happiness of a considerable portion of the human race.

In northern climes, 'tis said, e'en brutes
Have hair, or wool, or fur that suits.
Clothes should be suited to the season,
To keep our trembling limbs from freezing.
Passing the street the other day,

I heard a worthy matron say,

My dearest friend, my Cynthia dear,
Your health's declining fast, I fear;
That lovely bloom which once you wore,
Is vanished, to return no more;
Those tender limbs, I fear, will soon
Take up their lodging in the tomb,
And must I see her whom I prize,
To fashion fall a sacrifice:
But call it fashion, call it pride,
I call it muslin suicide.

Then quickly Cynthia made reply,
Whilst on her friend she fixed her eye,
You talk as if you 're in a passion,
You know I must be in the fashion;
You'd have me blind, and wrinkled too,
Before I bid the world adieu:

In this, my friend, you 're surely wrong,
"Tis not the fashion to live long;
I would not wish to be alive
Beyond the age of twenty five:
If at that age I should depart-
Aye, twenty five, you need not start!
How few great beauties, very few,
Exceed the age of twenty two-
If I should go off in my prime,
Say then how would the poets rhyme:
You, no doubt, would soon hear my name
Sung in elegiastic strain,

By some fond bard a mournful ditty,
"Twould prompt to envy more than pity