I.

“Ruin seize thee, senseless prig! Confusion on thy “optics” wait! Though prais’d by many a Johnian pig, They crowd the shop in fruitless state. Hood, nor Doctor’s scarlet gown, Nor N――th, nor P――th shall win renown; Nor save thy secret soul from nightly fears, The UNION’S curse, the UNION’S tears.” Such were the sounds that o’er the pedant pride Of W――d, the Johnian, scatter’d wild dismay, As down the flags of Petty-cury’s[55] side, He wound with toilsome march his long array, Stout T-th-m stood aghast with puffy face, “To arms!” cried Beverly,[56] and couch’d his quiv’ring mace.