You all do know that the last stitch Of work is done on the Big Ditch; And saw, no doubt the grand procession That was got up on the occasion: When soldiers, tailors, printers, furriers, Free-masons, soap boilers, and curriers, Cordwainers, college-boys, and bakers, Butchers, and saddle-and-harness-makers, Boat builders, coppersmiths, and tanners, Walked forth with badges and with banners, And every other craft and mystery, (A show unparallelled in history.) The Poet had no place assigned In the parade with his own kind; He stood apart amid the squinters, The carrier trudged among the printers, Distributing from time to time Small odes that were pronounced sublime. The Poet also was worse slighted, Not being to the Hook invited; Of course he has no just conception Of the Lake's marriage with old Neptune, Or if the salt sea felt compunction With the fresh lake to make a junction; Or whether Neptune took the sense Of Doctor Mitchell's eloquence; But all who witnessed the solemnity, Returned from sea with full indemnity, Pleased with the punch, the sail and speeching, Returning thanks they had no reaching, Or collapsed flues to spoil the pleasure, Although they steamed beyond all measure. The child that is unborn may rue, He did not live that day to view. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . To mention now we can't refrain How naughty KEAN came back again, Despite of many a rotten pippin, Contrived his ancient orb to keep in, And (such the morals of the age!) Once more to re-usurp the stage; Acquiring bravos, praise, and pelf, And Richard is again himself. But when to Boston bold he went, The 'winter of their discontent' Began to blow with so much force, He gave his 'kingdom for a horse,' And galloped off at such a pace, As if 'six Richmonds' were in chase.