And now the turnpike gates again open in short space; Flew The toll-men thinking as before, And so he did, and won it too, Now let us sing, long live the king, 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 PARSON AGE. COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, The priest he merry is and blithe He then is full of frights and fears, As one at point to die, And long before the day appears For then the farmers come, jog, jog, 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, And well he may, for well he knows So in they come—each makes his leg, 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; 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 At length the busy time begins, 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 But yet, methinks, to tell you true, O, why are farmers made so coarse, Or clergy made so fine? A kick that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH MARCH, 1789. WHEN, long sequester'd from his throne, Then, Loyalty, with all his lamps 'Twas hard to tell of streets or squares, Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, Amid the vault of heaven. So, fire with water to compare, Had all the pageants of the world And all the banners been unfurl'd That heralds e'er design'd; For no such sight had England's Queen Forsaken her retreat, Where George, recover'd, made a scene Sweet always, doubly sweet. Yet glad she came that night to prove, How much the object of her love Darkness the skies had mantled o'er Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before On borrow'd wheels away she flies, Which shook Belshazzar at his wine The night his city fell. Soon watery grew her and dim, eyes But with a joyful tear, None else, except in prayer for him, |