No merry thought, no flash of wit Was scrawled by this unseemly crew, With pain I read the words they writ Immodest and immoral too. The god of verse, the poet's friend, Whom Nature all indulgent finds-- That god of verse will never lend His powers to such degraded minds. In murmuring streams no chrystal wave To cheer the wretched hamlet flows; But frowning to the distant bog Rosanna with the pitcher goes. At dusk of eve the tardy treat Was placed on board of knotty pine; Each gaping gazed, to see me eat While round me lay the slumbering swine. Unblessed be she, whose aukward hand Before me laid the mouldy pone;[A] May she still miss the joyous kiss, Condemned to fret and sleep alone. [A] A composition of Indian meal and water, baked hastily before the fire on a board or hoe.--_Freneau's note._ The horse that bore me on my way Around me cast a wishful eye, He looked, and saw no manger near, And hung his head, and seemed to sigh. At stump of pine, for want of stall, All night, beneath a dripping tree, Not fed with oats, but filled with wind, And buckwheat straw, alone stood he. Discouraged at so vile a treat, Yet pleased to see the approaching dawn, In haste, we left this dreary place, Nor staid to drink their dear Yoppon.[B] [B] A shrub leaf very commonly used in the Carolinas, as a substitute for tea.--_Freneau's note._ May travellers dread to wander here, Unless on penance they be bound-- O may they never venture near, Such fleas and filthiness abound. But should ye come--be short your stay, For Lent is here forever kept-- Depart, ye wretches, haste away, Nor stop to sleep--where I have slept. [22] _Daily Advertiser_, February 19, 1790, entitled "Lines Descriptive of a Tavern at Log-Town, a small Place in the Pine Barrens of North-Carolina." The poem appeared originally in the _North Carolina Gazette_. [23] The signature "By Hezekiah Salem" or "By H. Salem" is peculiar to the 1809 edition. Freneau added it to many poems which in previous editions had been unsigned. THE WANDERER[24] As Southward bound to Indian isles O'er lonely seas he held his way, A songster of the feather'd kind Approach'd, with golden plumage gay: By sympathetic feelings led And grieving for her sad mischance, Thus Thyrsis to the wanderer said, As circling in her airy dance. "Sad pilgrim on a watery waste, What cruel tempest has compell'd To leave so far your native grove, To perish on this liquid field! Not such a dismal swelling scene (Dread Neptune's wild unsocial sea) But crystal brooks and groves of green, Dear rambling bird, were made for thee. Ah, why amid some flowery mead Did you not stay, where late you play'd: Not thus forsake the cypress grove That lent its kind protecting shade.