What tempests gloom'd the by-past year—
What dismal prospects then arose!
Scarce at your doors I dar'd appear,
So many were our griefs and woes:
But time at length has chang'd the scene,
Our prospects, now, are more serene.
Bad news we brought you every day,
Your seamen slain, your ships on shore,
The army fretting for their pay—
('Twas well they had not fretted more!)
'Twas wrong indeed to wear out shoes,
To bring you nothing but bad news.
Now let's be joyful for the change—
The folks that guard the English throne
Have given us ample room to range,
And more, perhaps, than was their own;
To western lakes they stretch our bounds,
And yield the Indian hunting grounds.
But pray read on another year,
Remain the humble newsman's friend;
And he'll engage to let you hear
What Europe's princes next intend.—
Even now their brains are all at work
To rouse the Russian on the Turk.
Well—if they fight, then fight they must,
They are a strange contentious breed;
One good effect will be, I trust,
The more are kill'd, the more you'll read;
For past experience clearly shews,
That Wrangling is the Life of News.