'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 bruishd 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!