THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX. Verses addressed to a country clergyman com plaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage. COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, This priest he merry is and blithe He then is full of fright and fears, For then the farmers come jog, jog, Each heart as heavy as a log, To make their payments good. In sooth, the sorrow of such days When he that takes and he that pays Now all unwelcome at his gates The clumsy swains alight, With rueful faces and bald pates- And well he may, for well he knows So in they come each makes his leg, And not to quit a score. "And how does miss and madam do, "The little boy and all?" "All tight and well. And how do you, "Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?" The dinner comes, and down they sit: One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, One spits upon the floor, Yet, not to give offence or grieve, The punch goes round, and they are dull Like barrels with their bellies full, At length the busy time begins. The money chinks, down drop their chins, One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs, that he has lost Quoth one," A rarer man than you O why are farmers made so coarse, A kick, that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; SONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, Esq. On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords. COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers; but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, Author of The Botanic Garden.' TWO Poets (poets, by report, They best can judge a poet's worth, We therefore pleased extol thy song, No envy mingles with our praise, They would they must at thine. But we, in mutual bondage knit And deem the bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for Thee, Unworthy of his own. Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines. |