In sooth, the sorrow of such days When he that takes, and he that pays, Now all unwelcome at his gates The clumsy swains alight, With rueful faces and bald patesHe trembles at the sight. 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 : 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. At length the busy time begins, 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, O why are farmers made so coarse, A kick that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; 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, Thy gen'rous pow'rs, but silence honour'd thee, Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head; and couldst with musick sweet Of Attick phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet LINES, ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, Author of "The Botanick Garden." TWO Poets,* (poets by report, Sweet harmonists of Flora's court! They best can judge a poet's worth We therefore pleas'd extol thy song, No envy mingles with our praise, They would-they must at thine. But we in mutual bondage knit With an unjaundic'd eye; And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for Thee, Unworthy of his own. Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which ac companied these lines. ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER HANG INGS. THE Birds put off their ev'ry huo, The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes, This plumage neither dashing show'r, Shall drench again or discompose, But, screen'd from every storm that blows, To this same patroness resort, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought |