I HOLD a letter in my hand,--
A flattering letter, more's the pity,--
By some contriving junto planned,
And signed _per order of Committee_.
It touches every tenderest spot,--
My patriotic predilections,
My well-known-something--don't ask what,--
My poor old songs, my kind affections.

They make a feast on Thursday next,
And hope to make the feasters merry;
They own they're something more perplexed
For poets than for port and sherry.
They want the men of--(word torn out);
Our friends will come with anxious faces,
(To see our blankets off, no doubt,
And trot us out and show our paces.)

They hint that papers by the score
Are rather musty kind of rations,--
They don't exactly mean a bore,
But only trying to the patience;
That such as--you know who I mean--
Distinguished for their--what d' ye call 'em--
Should bring the dews of Hippocrene
To sprinkle on the faces solemn.

--The same old story: that's the chaff
To catch the birds that sing the ditties;
Upon my soul, it makes me laugh