A Silurian Holiday

'Tis Master Fitch, the editor; He takes an holiday. Now wherefore, venerable sir, So resolutely gay? He lifts his head, he laughs aloud, Odzounds! 'tis drear to see! 'Because the Boodle-Scribbler crowd Will soon be far from me. 'Full many a year I've striven well To freeze the caitiffs out By making this good town a Hell, But still they hang about. 'They maken mouths and eke they grin At the dollar limit game; And they are holpen in that sin By many a wicked dame. 'In sylvan bowers hence I'll dwell My bruised mind to ease. Farewell, ye urban scenes, farewell! Hail, unfamiliar trees!' Forth Master Fitch did bravely hie, And all the country folk Besought him that he come not nigh The deadly poison oak! He smiled a cheerful smile (the day Was straightway overcast) The poison oak along his way Was blighted as he passed!