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For then, by toil subdu'd, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him : but the page

Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age

Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme

A more enduring date.
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,

No light propitious shone ;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

We perish'd each alone :
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

P

4

THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR,

TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a country clergyman, com

plaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage.

Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,

To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,

The burden of my song.
The priest he merry is and blithe,

Three quarters of the year,
But, oh! it cuts him like a sithe,

When tithing time draws near.
He then is full of frights and fears,

As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears,

He heaves up many a sigh.

a

For then the farmers come, jog, jog,

Along the miry road,
Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In sooth, the sorrow of such days

Is not to be express'd, When he that takes, and he that pays,

Are both alike distress'd.

Now all unwelcome at his gates

The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-

He trembles at the sight.

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.

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.
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.

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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.

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