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 patem

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 be 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 ?”

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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.



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
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, prais'd not for utt’rance meet

Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

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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.
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.



And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,

And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,

Unworthy of his own,

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