[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.
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.
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.
Abreast the inn--a tree before the door, A Printing-Office lifts its humble head Where busy Type old journals doth explore For news that is thro' all the village read; Who, year from year, (so cruel is his lot) Is author, pressman, devil--and what not?
Fame says he is an odd and curious wight, Fond to distraction of this native place; In sense, not very dull nor very bright, Yet shews some marks of humour in his face, One who can pen an anecdote, complete, Or plague the parson with the mackled sheet.