For then the farmers come jog, jog,

Along the miry road,

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In footh, the forrow of fuch days
Is not to be expreffed,

When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike diftreffed.

Now all, unwelcome, at his gates

The clumfy fwains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-
He trembles at the fight.

And well he may, for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Inftead 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 mifs 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 fit:
Were ever fuch hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit
It is no time to joke.

One wipeshis nofe upon his sleeve,

One fpits 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 ftill as ever;

Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.

At length the bufy time begins.

Come, neighbours, we muft wag→'

The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of froft,

And one of ftorms of hail,

And one of pigs, that he has loft
By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one,

A rarer man than you

In pulpit none shall hear :

But yet, methinks, to tell you true,

You fell it plaguy dear.'

Oh, why are farmers made fo coarse,
Or clergy made so fine!

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a found divine.

Then let the boobies ftay at home;
Twould coft him, I dare fay,

Lefs trouble taking twice the fum,

Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO

HENRY COWPER, Esq.

On his emphatical and interefting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Haftings, Efq. in the House of Lords.

COWPER, whofe filver voice, tasked fometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou readeft) of England's peers,' Let verfe at length yield thee thy juft reward. Thou waft not heard with drowsy difregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers, but filence honoured thee Mute as ever gazed on Orator or Bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but haft befide

Both heart and head; and couldft with music sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet

Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

Two Poets, (poets, by report,

Not oft fo well agree)

Sweet Harmonift of Flora's court!

Confpire to honour Thee.

They beft can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themfelves have known

The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

We therefore pleafed extol thy fong,
Though various yet complete,

Rich in embellishment as strong,
And learned as it is fweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,
Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would-they muft at thine.

Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied

thefe lines.