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 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, 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, 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 and hail, Quoth one," A rarer man than you Oh why are farmers made so coarse, A kick that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; 'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum, Without the clowns that pay. SONNET 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, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head: and couldst with music sweet Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, AUTHOR OF THE "BOTANIC GARDEN." Two Poets', (poets, by report, Not oft so well agree,) Sweet harmonist of Flora's court! Conspire to honour thee. 1 Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines. They best can judge a poet's worth, The By labours of their own. We therefore pleased extol thy song, No envy mingles with our praise; They would-they must at thine. But we, in mutual bondage knit And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for thee, Unworthy of his own. ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER HANGINGS. THE Birds put off their every hue, To dress a room for Montagu. The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes, His rainbows and his starry eyes; The Pheasant, plumes which round infold That glossy shine, or vivid flame, But, screen'd from every storm that blows, To the same patroness resort, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought |