And well he may, for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes, 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, 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 Quoth one, · A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear: But yet, methinks, to tell you true, You sell it plaguy dear.' Oh, 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; Less trouble taking twice the sum, ADDRESSED TO Dr. DARWIN, 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 The pangs of a poetic birth os We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy song, Though various yet complete, Rich in embellishment as strong, And learn'd as it is sweet. * Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied this. 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 Can gaze on even Darwin's wit And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for Thee, Unworthy of his own. |