The Procession to Sylvania

In Life's dull round, how often folks are cross'd,
Their projects spoil'd, their sayings misapplied;
Some friends in woods and some in oceans lost,
Some doom'd to walk on foot, while others ride.

But, now, let preachers moralize in verse,
While I to yonder caravan attend
That all prepar'd, like some slow moving herse
Begins its journey to an Indian land;

Bound for Sylvania!--sad, disheartening town,
When thou art nam'd how many a nymph will sigh,
Sigh, lest her sweet-heart should return a clown
With grizly homespun coat, long beard, and pumpkin pye.

This caravan with wondrous geer is stow'd,
All sorts of moveables--straw beds, and cradles,
Old records, salted fish, make up their load,
With kegs of brandy, frying pans, and ladles.

A pensive Printer in a one-horse chair
(Dragg'd slowly on by sullen sleepy steed,
With some ill-fated squires) brings up the rear,
Contriving future news for folks to read.

To guard the whole, a trusty knight appears,
With chosen men, to keep the wolves at bay:
They march--and lo! Belinda all in tears
That bears must hug instead of ladies gay.