Now all unwelcome at his gates

The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates

He trembles at the sight.
And well be 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 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.
VOL. I.

20

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.

BONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

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 generous powers, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed 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, praised not for utterance meet (f others' speech, but magic of thy own.

LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,

AUTHOR OF THE

BOTANIO 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 pleased 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 unjaundiced eye; 1 Alloding 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.

ON MRS MONTAGUS FEATHER-HANGINGS.

The birds put off their every hue,
To dress a room for Montagu.

The peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry 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.
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,
Where rises, and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gurgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing shower,
Nor blasts that shake the dripping bower,
Shall drench again or discompose,
But screen'd from every storm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montagu.