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, This priest he merry is and blithe He then is full of fright and fears, For then the farmers come jog, jog, Each heart as heavy as a log, To make their payments good. In sooth, the sorrow of such days When he that takes and he that pays Are both alike distressed. Now all unwelcome at his gates The clumsy swains alight, And well he may, for well he knows So in they come-each makes his leg, 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: 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, The punch goes round, and they are dull And lumpish still as ever; Like barrels with their bellies full, They only weigh the heavier. SONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. At length the busy time begins. 66 Come, neighbours, we must wag—” One talks of mildew and of frost, Quoth one, "A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear; But yet, methinks, to tell you true, O why are farmers made so coarse, A kick, that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home, 443 SONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of COWPER, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard, 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, 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 LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN Author of "The Botanic Garden." Two Poets,* (poets by report, Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court! Conspire to honour Thee. They best can judge a poet's worth, 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, No envy mingles with our praise, They would-they must at thine. But we, in mutual bondage knit And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for Thee, 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, |