A crew that is brisk when it happens to blow, One compass on deck and another below, A girl, with more sense than the girl at the head, To read me a novel, or make up my bed-- The man that has these, has a treasure in store That millions possess not, who live upon shore: But if it should happen that commerce grew dull, Or Neptune, ill-humoured, should batter our hull, Should damage my cargo, or heave me aground, Or pay me with farthings instead of a pound: Should I always be left in the rear of the race, And this be forever--forever the case; Why then, if the honest plain truth I may tell, I would clew up my topsails, and bid him farewell. [46] Published in the _National Gazette_, November 14, 1791, under the title "A Mistake Rectified." Included in the 1795 edition with the title, "Epistle to a Desponding Sea-man." Text from the edition of 1809. It is very doubtful if Freneau ever sailed to Calcutta. MODERN DEVOTION[47] [By H. Salem] To church I went, with good intent, To hear Sangrado preach and pray; But objects there, black, brown and fair, Turned eyes and heart a different way. Miss Patty's fan, Miss Molly's man, With powdered hair and dimple cheek; Miss Bridget's eyes, that once made prize Of Fopling with his hair so sleek: Embroidered gowns, and play-house tunes Estranged all hearts from heaven too wide: I felt most odd, this house of God Should all be flutter, pomp, and pride. Now, pray be wise, no prayers will rise To heaven--where hearts are not sincere. No church was made for Cupid's trade; Then why these arts of ogling here? Since time draws nigh, when you and I, At church, must claim the sexton's care!-- Leave pride at home, when'er you come To pay to heaven your offerings, there! [47] Published in the _National Gazette_, December 5, 1791. Text from the edition of 1809. THE COUNTRY PRINTER[48] I. DESCRIPTION OF HIS VILLAGE Beside a stream, that never yet ran dry, There stands a Town, not high advanced in fame; Tho' few its buildings raised to please the eye, Still this proud title it may fairly claim; A Tavern (its first requisite) is there, A mill, a black-smith's shop, a place of prayer. Nay, more--a little market-house is seen And iron hooks, where beef was never hung, Nor pork, nor bacon, poultry fat or lean, Pig's head, or sausage link, or bullock's tongue: Look when you will, you see the vacant bench No butcher seated there, no country wench. Great aims were his, who first contriv'd this town; A market he would have--but, humbled now, Sighing, we see its fabric mouldering down, That only serves, at night, to pen the cow: And hence, by way of jest, it may be said That beef is there, tho' never beef that's dead.