For then the farmers come jog, jog, Along the miry road, 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 Are both alike distress'd. Now all unwelcome at his gates The clumsy swains alight, With rueful faces and bald pates— He trembles at the sight. And well he may, for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes, Will cheat him if he can. 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 At length the busy time begins. "Come, neighbours, we must wag-" The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag. One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of pigs that he has lost Quoth one, "A rarer man than you "In pulpit none shall hear: 'But yet, methinks, to tell you true, "You sell it plaguy dear." O why are farmers made so coarse, Or clergy made so fine? A kick, that scarce would move a horse, May kill a sound divine. Then let the boobies stay at home; "Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum, Without the clowns that pay. 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 gen'rous pow'rs, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gaz'd 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 Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. Lines addressed to DR. DARWIN, Author of "THE BOTANIC GARDEN." Two Poets*, (poets, by report, Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court! They best can judge a poet's worth. By labours of their own. We therefore pleas'd extol thy song, No envy mingles with our praise, Though could our hearts repine At any poet's happier lays, They would-they must at thine. Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines. |