Epistle from one absent editor to another

Subscribers to ye! J. T. B.
Where'er ye flit, where'er ye flee —
And though ye 'll na remember me
In your braw lodgin,
I trust ye 'll ha'e the grace to see
Friends wi'out dodgin.

O gin I were in stage or boat,
Wi' stuffed valise and dapper coat,
How blithely wad I ride or float
On land an' water;
But here I am, na worth a groat—
'T is nae great matter.

I hope, dear sir, it winna vex ye
To hear I borrow the Galaxy,
Wherein ye rave at sic as tax ye
Wi' a that loss —
But dinna let thae things perplex ye,
And be na cross.

I ken ye're crouse, and gi'e sma' glint
At rhyme, when there's nae meaning in 't,
And sae, my verse I weel may stint
For a' you read on 't;
And my puir muse begins to hint
There's little need on 't.

I only meant to let ye ken
That I, like ither absent men,
Have not been busy at my pen
In Hartford City,
But only scribbled now and then —
"The mair's the pity."

I greet thee frae the banks and braes
That saw me in my childish days,
Where neither sylphs nor pranking fays
Buttoned my jacket;
The nearest I saw, in my strays,
Was auld Till Becket,

May you, by Tiber's favored burn,
Or where Potomac sees the urn
That patriot-poets stop and turn
To make a verse on,
Or 'mid the rigs o' Southern corn,
Meet nae worse person.