Employs, shut out from more important views,
Fast by the banks of the slow winding Ouse;
Content if thus sequestered I may raise

A monitor's, though not a poet's praise,
And while I teach an art too little known,

To close life wisely, may not waste my own.

309

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.

The priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of the 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 expressed,

When he that takes and he that pays

Are both alike distressed.

Now all, unwelcome, at his gates

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,

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 ever 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.