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 figh.

For then the farmers come jog, jog, Along the miry road,

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In footh, the forrow of fuch days
Is not to be exprefs'd,

When he that takes and he that pays

Are both alike diftrefs'd.

Now all, unwelcome, at his gates
The clumsy fwains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-
He trembles at the fight.

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.

Q2

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 mifs and madam do,

The little boy and all?'

All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?'

น

The dinner comes, and down they fit:
Were e'er fuch hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nofe upon

his fleeve,

One fpits 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 ftill 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 loft 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 fell it plaguy dear.'

Oh, why are farmers made fo coarse,

Or clergy made so fine!

A kick that scarce would move a horfe
May kill a found divine.

Then let the boobies ftay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare fay,
Lefs trouble taking twice the fum,
Without the clowns that pay.

Lines addreffed to

DR. DARWIN.

AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

Two Poets,* (poets, by report,

Not oft fo well agree)

Sweet harmonist of Flora's court!

Confpire to honour thee.

They beft 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 fong,
Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment, as ftrong

And learn'd as it is fweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,
Though could our hearts repine

At any poet's happier lays,

They would, they muft, at thine.

Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompa

nied this.

But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit

With an unjaundic'd eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,

And howfoever known,

Who would not twine a wreath for thee,
Unworthy of his own.

ON

MRS. MONTAGUE's

FEATHER-HANGINGS.

THE birds put off their ev'ry hue

To drefs a room for Montague.

The Peacock fends his heav'nly dyes,

His rainbows and his ftarry eyes;

The Pheasant plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold

The Cock his arch'd tail's azure show,

And, river-blanch'd, the Swan, his snow.