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Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ
(Apprised that he is such) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,
Merely to sleep, and let them run astray ?
Survey our schools and colleges, and see
A sight not much unlike my simile.
From education, as the leading cause,
The public character its colour draws;
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.
And, though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each—This Building to be Let,
Unless the world were all prepared to embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place ;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean,
(Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess,
Or better managed, or encouraged less. .

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 receive ing 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 burthen of my song.
This priest he merry is and blithe

Three quarters of a year
But oh! it cuts him like a sithe,

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 express’d,
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."

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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 ;r.

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.

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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 Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet

Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

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