To the Democratic Country Editors

You, Journalists, are bribed--that's clear,
And paid French millions by the year;
We see it in the coats you wear;

Such damning, such convincing proof
Of such a charge, is strong enough--
Your suits are made of costly stuff.

Dear boys! you lodge in mansions grand--
In time you'll own six feet of land,
Where now the sexton has command.

Your lodging is in garret high;
But where your best possessions lie,
Yourselves know best--and Him on high.

And have you had a foreign bribe?--
Then, why so lean?--shall we describe
The leanness of your honest tribe?

Why did you not with Tories join
To hold the British king divine--
And all his mandates very fine?

Then had your faces shined with fat--
Then had you worn the gold-laced hat--
And--said your lessons--very pat.--

Your lives are, now, continual trial,
Existence, constant self-denial,
To keep down some, who would be royal.

For public good you wear out types,
For public good you get dry wipes--
For public good you may get--stripes.

One half your time in Federal court,
On libel charge--you're made a sport--
You pay your fees--nor dare retort.--

All pleasure you are sworn to shun;
Are always cloistered, like a nun,
And glad to hide from Ragman's dun.--

All night you sit by glare of lamp,
Like Will o' Wisp in vapoury swamp,
To write of armies and the camp.--

You write--compile--compile and write,
'Till you have nearly lost your sight--
Then off to jail; and so, good night.

Turned out as poor as Christ-church rat,
Once more the trade you would be at
Which never yet made lean man fat.

You send your journals far and wide,
And though undone, and though belied;
You choose to take the patriot side.

Your works are in Kentucky found;
And there your politics go round--
And there you trust them many a pound.--

At home, to folks residing near,
You grant a credit, half a year;
And pine, mean while, on cakes and beer.

The time elapsed when friends should pay,
You urge your dun from day to day;
And so you must--and so you may.

One customer begins to fret,
And tells the dunner in a pet,
"Plague take the Printer and his debt:

"Ungrateful man--go hang--go burn--
"I read his paper night and morn,
"And now experience this return!

"Sir! was I not among the first
"Who did my name on paper trust,
"To help this Journalist accursed?

"Thus am I used for having signed:
"But I have spirit, he shall find--
"Ah me! the baseness of mankind!"

Thus, on you strive with constant pain,
The kindest tell you, call again!--
And you their humble dupe remain.

Who aims to prosper--should be sold--
If bribes are offered, take the gold,
Nor live to be forever fooled.

SALEM.