My cousin fair, dear Mary B,
Excuse my long neglect I pray,
And pardon too, the homely strain,
In which I sing this rustic lay.

My muse and I are sorted ill,
I'm in my yellow leaf and sere;
While she is young and ardent still
And urges me to persevere.

She reads to me the roll of fame,
And presses me to join the throng,
That surge and struggle for a name,
Among the gifted sons of song.

Of that vain stuff the world calls fame
I've had I think my ample share.
At best 'tis but a sounding name
An idle puff of empty air.

For more than once I've been the choice
Of freemen to enact their laws,
And patriots cheered me when my voice,
I raised to vindicate their cause.

And more than this I've brought to pass,
For I have made a lot of ground
Produce the second blade of grass,
Where formerly but one was found.