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 H! bard of the West, hasten back from Great Britain,
 * Our harp-strings are silent, they droop on the tree;

What poet among us is worthy to sit in
 * The chair whose fair cushion was hallowed by thee?

In vain the wild clouds o’er our mountain-tops hover,
 * Our rivers flow sadly, our groves are bereft;

They have lost, and forever, their poet, their lover!
 * And Woodworth and Paulding are all we have left.

Great Woodworth, the champion of Buckets and Freedom,
 * Thou editor, author, and critic to boot,

I must leave thy rich volumes to those that can read ’em,
 * For my part I never had patience to do’t.

And as for poor Upham (who in a fine huff says
 * He’ll yield to no Briton the laurel of wit),

Alas! they have “stolen his ideas,” as Puff says,
 * I had read all his verses before they were writ.