As to politics--Adams and Clinton yet live, And reign, we presume, as we never have miss'd 'em, And woollens and Webster continue to thrive Under something they call the American System. If you're anxious to know what the country is doing, Whether ruin'd already or going to ruin, And who her next president will be, please heaven, Read the letters of Jackson, the speeches of Clay, All the party newspapers, three columns a day, And Blunt's Annual Register, year 'twenty-seven. A FRAGMENT. * * * * * His shop is a grocer's--a snug, genteel place, Near the corner of Oak-street and Pearl; He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace And ties his cravat with a curl. He's ask'd to all parties--north, south, east, and west, That take place between Chatham and Cherry, And when he's been absent full oft has the "best Society" ceased to be merry. And nothing has darken'd a sky so serene, Nor disorder'd his beauship's Elysium, Till this season among our _élitè_ there has been What is call'd by the clergy "a schism." 'Tis all about eating and drinking--one set Gives sponge-cake, a few "kisses" or so, And is cool'd after dancing with classic sherbet, "Sublimed" (see Lord Byron) "with snow." Another insists upon punch and _perdrix_, Lobster-salad, Champagne, and, by way Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea, Stew'd oysters from Lynn-Haven bay. Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright, In the front parlour over her shop, "Entertains," as the phrase is, a party to-night, Upon peanuts and ginger-pop. And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young, But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce, She "entertains" also to-night with cold tongue, Smoked herring, and cherry-bounce. In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke, He of Teos sang sweetly of wine; Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak, Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine. The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place; In Pike-street the Capulets reign; A _limonadière_ is the badge of one race, Of the other a flask of Champagne. Now as each the same evening her soireè announces, What better, he asks, can be done, Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces, And then wine with the Fleeces till one! * * * * * SONG. BY MISS * * * *. _Air_, "To ladies eyes a round, boy." MOORE.