Old Eighty-Five discharg'd and gone, Another year comes hastening on To quit us in its turn: With outspread wings and running glass
Thus Time's deluding seasons pass, And leave mankind to mourn. But strains like this add grief to grief;— We are the lads that give relief
With sprightly wit and merry lay: Our various page to all imparts Amusement fit for social hearts, And drives the monster, spleen, away.
Abroad our leaves of knowledge fly, And twice a week they live and die; Short seasons of repose! Fair to your view our toils display
The monarch's aim, what patriots say, Or sons of art disclose: Whate'er the barque of commerce brings From sister States, or foreign kings,
No atom we conceal: All Europe's prints we hourly drain, All Asia's news our leaves contain, And round our world we deal.
If falsehoods sometimes prompt your fears, And horrid news from proud Algiers, That gives our tars such pain; Remember all must have their share,
And all the world was made for care, The monarch and the swain. If British isles ( that once were free, In Indian seas, to you and me )
All entrance still restrain, Why let them starve with all their host When British pride gives up the ghost, And courts our aid in vain.
We fondly hope some future year Will all our clouded prospects clear, And commerce stretch her wings; New tracks of trade new wealth disclose,
While round the globe our standard goes In spite of growling kings. Materials thus together drawn To tell you how the world goes on
May surely claim regard; One simple word we mean to say, This is our jovial New Year's day, And now, our toils reward.
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