Now all unwelcome at his gates And well he may, for well he knows 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. THOTHEC "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, Yet, not to give offence or grieve, The punch goes round, and they are dull 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 By maggots at the tail. Quoth one, "A rarer man than you O why are farmers made so coarse, A kick, that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; "Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum Without the clowns that pay. SONNET 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, 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 Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN." Two Poets,* (poets, by report, Sweet harmonist of Flora's court! They best can judge a poet's worth The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own. We therefore pleased extol thy song, No envy mingles with our praise, They would-they must at thine. But we, in mutual bondage knit With an unjaundiced eye; Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accom panied these lines. 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, The peacock sends his heavenly dyes, But, screen'd from every storm that blows, |