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Farmers! who find in Cobden's breath,
And Bright's harangues, a menaced death
For all of yeoman station,
And most appropriately brand
Prone to ass
When landlords cry,
“ We must be fed,
Go--grind your bones to make our bread,
“ From Earth more harvests ravish;
Study Liebig, ye clodpole elves !
Buy Guano-Soda-stint yourselves,
“That we may still be lavish :"
Farmers! ye ought to patronise
To lessen your expenses,
So hear my tale—there's little in 't,
'Tis merely meant to give a hint
For making cheap field fences.
Queen Bess—I mean Elizabeth,
Favour'd, as the historian saith,
The handsome Earl of Leicester,
To whom she made large grants of land,
For which he doubtless kiss'd her hand,
And duly thank'd and bless'd her.
These lands were commons, on whose turf
Many a cottager and serf
Had fed his goose or donkey;
And being dispossess’d, the crowd
Began to murmur in a loud,
I needn't add a wrong key.
What cared his lordship! down he came,
With carpenters to fence the same,
And shut out clowns and cattle;
Riding each morn the men to watch,
So that no moment they might snatch
For drink or tittle-tattle.
One day, a peasant by his side
Bow'd his grey-head and humbly cried,
“I ax your lordship’s pardon, “I've got a notion in my nob, · Whereby this here expensive job
“Not cost a farthing, doting clown!"
“Yes," quoth the rustic—"yes, my lord,
“ You needn't buy another board,
“Or oaken plank or paling,
“Think not my words are brags and boasts,
“For if your lordship finds the posts,
“The public will find railing!"
Joy! joy! my lover's bark returns,
I know her by her bearing brave: How gallantly the foam she spurns,
And bounds in triumph o'er the wave!
Why dost thou veil the glorious sight,
In lurid rain, thou summer cloud ?
See! see! the lightning flashes bright!
Hark! to the thunder long and loud!
The storm is past—the skies are fair,
But where's the bark?-there was but one:
Ha! she is yonder, shatter'd-bare,
She reels-she-sinks—0 Heaven! she's gone!