For then, by toil subdu'd, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him: but the page That tells his name, his worth, his age And tears by bards or heroes shed I therefore purpose not, or dream, But misery still delights to trace No voice divine the storm allay'd, But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he. THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX. Verses addressed to a country clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage. COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, The priest he merry is and blithe, He then is full of frights and fears, For then the farmers come, jog, jog, 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, 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. "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; One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, Yet not to give offence or grieve, The punch goes round, and they are dull At length the busy time begins, 66 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 O why are farmers made so coarse, A kick that scarce would move a horse, |