Though skilled in Latin and in Greek,
And earning fifty cents a week,
Such knowledge, and the income, too,
Should teach you better what to do:
 The meanest drudges, kept in pay,
 Can pocket fifty cents a day.

Why stay in such a tasteless land,
Where all must on a level stand,
(Excepting people, at their ease,
Who choose the level where they please:)
 See Irving gone to Britain's court
 To people of another sort,
 He will return, with wealth and fame,
 While Yankees hardly know your name.

Lo! he has kissed a Monarch's--hand!
Before a prince I see him stand,
And with the glittering nobles mix,
Forgetting times of seventy-six,
While you with terror meet the frown
Of Bank Directors of the town,
 The home-made nobles of our times,
 Who hate the bard, and spurn his rhymes.

Why pause?--like Irving, haste away,
To England your addresses pay;
And England will reward you well,
 Of British feats, and British arms,
 The maids of honor, and their charms.

Dear bard, I pray you, take the hint,
In England what you write and print,
Republished here in shop, or stall,
Will perfectly enchant us all:
 It will assume a different face,
 And post your name at every place,
 From splendid domes of first degree
 Where ladies meet, to sip their tea;
 From marble halls, where lawyers plead,
 Or Congress-men talk loud, indeed,
 To huts, where evening clubs appear,
 And 'squires resort--to guzzle Beer.