THE

YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX

Verses addressed to a country clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage.

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,

The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burden of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe,
When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.

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
Is not to be expressed,

When he that takes and he that pays

Are both alike distressed.

Now all unwelcome at his gates 2014
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, ha
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,

Yet, not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull And lumpish still as ever;

Like barrels with their bellies full,

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,

And one of pigs, that he has lost
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."

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, tasked sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears.

444

LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,

(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 honoured 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 renowned forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own

LINES

ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN

Author of "The Botanic Garden."

Two Poets,* (poets by report,
Not oft so well agree,)
Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!
Conspire to honour Thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known

The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

* Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.

We therefore pleased, 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 unjaundiced eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,
And howsoever known,

Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,
Unworthy of his own.

ON

MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER HANGINGS,

THE birds put off their every hue,
To dress a room for Montagu.

The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The Pheasant plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The Cock his arched tail's azure show;
And, river-blanched, the Swan his snow.