These, these are arts pursu'd without a crime, That leave no stain upon the wing of Time. Me poetry (or rather notes that aim Feebly and vainly at poetic fame) Employs, shut out from more important views, A monitor's, though not a poet's praise, 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,8 This priest he merry is and blithe But oh! it cuts him like a sithe, He then is full of fright and fears, A As one at point to die, And long before the day appears He heaves up many a sigh. Od A H 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 When he that takes and he that pays 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 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?" U 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, .. C Yet, not to give offence or grieve, Holds up the cloth before. g 4M The punch goes round, and they are dull Like barrels with their bellies full, 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, By maggots at the tail. Quoth one, A rarer man than you 66 In pulpit none shall hear : But yet, methinks, to tell you true, "You sell it plaguy dear.” |