EPIGRAM.

To purify their wine, some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things.
And hence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs.
"Tis in the blood of innocence alone--
Good cause why planters never try their own..

THE YEARLY DISTRESS;

OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

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 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

f'he clumsy swains alight,

With rueful faces and bald patcs;-
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,
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.

66

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 sell it plaguy dear.

you true,

O why were farmers nrado 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

(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.

THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.

NO FABLE.

THE noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,

When 'scaped from literary cares,
I wandered on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,

(Two nymphs' adorned with every grans
That spaniel found for me,)

Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,

Pursued the swallow o'er the reads,
With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse displayed
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wished my own.

With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;

But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,

I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I returned;
Beau, trotting far before,

The floating wreath again discerned,
And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him, with that lily cropped,
Impatient swim to meet

My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.

Charmed with the sight, the world I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed:
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed:

1 Sir Robert Gunning's daughtern.