Then to market with the fleece, when the little herd were shorn, I never knew at that time, go search the country round, How merry would the farmers then sing along the road, A blessing to the squire, for he gave us great content, And well he entertained us, when my father paid his rent, With flagons of good ale he'd drink, "Farmer, speed the plough," How happily we lived then to what we do now. At length the squire died, Sir, O bless his ancient pate!. Another fill'd with pride, came as heir to the estate, He took my father's farm away, and others too, I vow, Which brought us to the wretched state that we are in now. May Providence befriend us, and raise some honest heart, THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN'S SONG. J. HUGHES. GOOD neighbours, since you've knock'd me down, Of a race that yields to no man: When order first on earth began, And the barley-mow, Maintained his court from off his farm, The plough was then a nation's boast, A brave and a noble Roman. Some here may call to mind his name, He sav'd the state, He made the haughty foe to bow, And when all was done, went back to plough, Said Horace, "I'm grown sick of court, Is the life of a raree showman; I long, 'mid all the fun of Rome, To see how my farm goes on at home." The world around, But he stuck to his turnips, wheat, and hops, Good freeholders, and stout were they At the name of an English bowman; And the spot where it grew, For that was near our good old church; When George the Third adorn'd our throne, And defied each foreign foeman. The good old king, he fear'd his GOD, And he found a charm In every useful sterling art, And he wore the home-spun coat and heart Since then the brave, the wise, and great, We claim a pride of ancient date, A pride that will injure no man; Though Scotch philosophers and Jews Would starve us out, and our name abuse, We'll stand by the king, The church, and each thing That our loyal fathers honour'd most; A WISH. SAMUEL ROGERS. MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivy'd porch shall spring, Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; The village church, among the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND. THE sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle! We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn, CONVIVIAL SONGS. HE Bacchanalian and Convivial Songs of the English people are not of a high order of merit. The most elegant of them are translations, or paraphrases, of the Odes of Anacreon, the only author who has eminently succeeded in wreathing the flowers of fancy around the drinking-cup, or in rendering even tolerable, to the taste of a refined and civilized people, the praises of intoxication. But in borrowing from Anacreon, the |