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In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express'd, When he that takes and he tliat pays
Are both alike distress'd.
Now all unwelcome at bis gates
The clumsy swains alight,
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 flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg,
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 :
Were e'er such hungry folk? There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.
One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Holds up the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever ;
They only weigh the heavier.
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 storms of hail,
By maggots at the tail.
Quoth one, “ A rarer man than you
“In pulpit none shall hear: “But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
“You sell it plaguy dear.”
why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine ?
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum, Wi
ut the clowns that pay.
ADDRESSED TO HENRI 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
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.
ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,
Author of " The Botanic Garden."
Two Poets,* (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree)
Conspire to honour Thee.
Who oft themselves have known
By labours of their own.
We therefore pleas'd extol thy song,
Though various yet complete, Rich in embellishment as strong,
And learned as 'tis sweet.
No envy mingles with our praise,
Though, could our hearts repine At any poet's happier lays,
They would—they must at thine.
But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship’s closest tie, Can gaze on even Darwin's wit
With an unjaundic'd eye; • Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.