The following Poem, was published, in the PENNSYLVANIA CHRONICLE

Ye lovers of freedom and ease, A few words with you, friends, if you please. We have been so much pester'd, of late, With disputes about matters of state, And so tumbled and tost by a tide Of religious contention beside; That, in truth, I suspect that a stranger. Wou'd think us in no little danger Of running all into confusion. A Stranger might draw this conclusion; But—however some Ranters may huff. I think we are still snug enough. For—what do we care, do you see, Whether Bigots, or no, can agree? Let e'm wrangle, dispute, and discuss; 'Tis a matter of moon shine to us. To begin at the rear of the clan; When John has done all that he can In defending the Kirk with—slap-dashes, And the Centinel (peace to his ashes!) Has suppli'd, with waste-paper, the bakers, Cooks, grocers, and periwig-makers; When, by misrepresentation, Bold scandal, and fierce declamation, The Whigs shall have wearied their tongues, And exhausted the force of their lungs;— When the Letter, subscrib'd by—the Author, Shall have feasted an over-grown moth, or In tatters slown out of our sight, On the wings, or the tail, of a kite;— When this Author—without Aberration, Shall have given his last attestation, That New-England rose under the banners Of primitive faith and good manners;— When that Eminent pattern of both, That Fungus of seven week's growth! (Who, in so short a space, did not stick To send Chandler's appeal to old Nick, And who bravely defeated Landaff In less time than you think for by half;) When Dector Ram-Chicken of Boston Shall have pluck'd you the beard of saint Austin, And eclips'd all the Mayhews and Mathers, By dancing the hays round the Fathers;— In a word—when these puritan heroes Shall have prov'd all our Kings to be Neroes, And the Bishops—those creatures of kings, To be Dragons, with terrible stings; When the farce of a Mock Reformation Once more shall have worried the nation, And—to purge it of carnal pollution, Subverted the whole Constitution; And when the fanatical mother Shall, instead of it, bring forth another, A thing without name, by degrees To be form'd—as the Brotherhood please, Till the monster becomes a Republic, As a bear into shape does her cub lick;— Then!—well,—prithee tell us, what then? Why then—all will be quiet agen. Then, I hope, we may venture to sing Tweedledum, without Bishop—or King! While we cheerfully toss of our glasses, And bid all the world kiss—and be friends.