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Now let us sing-Long live the king,

And Gilpin long live he;
And, when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

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,

To laugh it would be wrong; as !
The troubles of a worthy priest

The burden of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe

Three quarters of the year,

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But oh! it cuts him like a sithe

When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,

As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears

He heaves up many a sigh.

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

Is not to be express’d, When he that takes and he that pays

Are both alike distress'd.

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

Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead 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 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;

It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,

One spits 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 still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,

They only weigh the heavier.

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At length the busy time begins:

· Come, neighbours, we must wagThe money chinks, down drop their chins,

Each lugging out his bag.

1

One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of storms of hail,

And one of pigs that he has lost

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 sell it plaguy dear.'

Oh, why are farmers made só coarse,

Or clergy made 'so fine!

A kick that scarce would move a horse

May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home, V

'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum, (!

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