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Bequeathed to missions money from the stocks,

And Bibles issued from his private box;
But to his native place severely just,
He left a pittance bound in rigid trust;—
Two paltry pounds, on every quarter's-day,
(At church produced) for forty loaves should

pay;

A stinted gift, that to the parish shows
He kept in mind their bounty and their blows!

:

To farmers three, the year has given a son, Finch on the Moor,and French,and Middleton. Twice in this year a female Giles I see, A Spalding once, and once a Barnaby :A humble man is he, and, when they meet, Our farmers find him on a distant seat; There for their wit he serves a constant theme,

They praise his dairy, they extol his team, They ask the price of each unrivall'd steed, And whence his sheep, that admirable breed? His thriving arts they beg he would explain, And where he puts the money he must gain. They have their daughters, but they fear their friend

Would think his sons too much would condescend;

They have their sons who would their for

tunes try, But fear his daughters will their suit deny. So runs the joke, while James, with sigh profound,

And face of care, looks moveless on the ground, His cares, his sighs, provoke the insult more, And point the jest-for Barnaby is poor.

Last in my list, five untaught lads appear; Their father dead, compassion sent them here,

For still that rustic infidel denied
To have their names with solemn rite applied:
His, a lone house, by Deadman's Dyke-way
stood;

And his, a nightly haunt, in Lonely-wood:
Each village-inn has heard the ruffian boast,
That he believed in neither God nor ghost;
That, when the sod upon the sinner press'd
He, like the saint, had everlasting rest;
That never priest believed his doctrines true,
But would, for profit, own himself a Jew,
Or worship wood and stone,as honest heathens
do;

That fools alone on future worlds rely,
And all who die for faith, deserve to die.
These maxims, -part th' attorney's clerk
profess'd,

His own transcendent genius found the rest;
Our pious matrons heard, and, much amazed,
Gazed on the man, and trembled as they
gazed;

And now his face explored, and now his feet, Man's dreaded foe, in this bad man, to meet:

But him our drunkards as their champion raised,

Their bishop call'd, and as their hero praised; Though most, when sober, and the rest, when sick,

Had little question whence his bishoprick. But he, triumphant spirit! all things dared, He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snared; 'Twas his, at cards, each novice to trepan, And call the wants of rogues the rights of

man;

Wild as the winds, he let his offspring rove, And deem'd the marriage-bond the bane of love.

What age and sickness, for a man so bold, Had done, we know not;-none beheld him old: By night, as business urged, he sought the wood,

The ditch was deep,-the rain had caused a flood,

The foot-bridge fail'd—he plunged beneath the deep,

And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep.

These have we named; on life's rough sea

they sail,

With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale!

Where passions soon, like powerful winds, will rage,

And prudence, wearied, with their strength

engage: Then each, in aid, shall some companion ask, For help or comfort in the tedious task; And what that help-what joys from union

flow,

What good or ill, we next prepare to show; And row, meantine, our weary bark ashore, As Spenser his-but not with Spenser's oar.

PART II.

MARRIAGES.

Nubere si quà voles, quamvis properabitis ambo, Differ; habent parvæ commoda magna mora.

DISPOSED to wed, e'en while you hasten,

stay;

There's great advantage in a small delay :-
Thus Ovid sang, and much the wise approve
This prudent maxim of the priest of Love:
If poor, delay for future want prepares,
And eases humble life of half its cares;
If rich, delay shall brace the thoughtful mind,
T'endure the ills that e'en the happiest
find:

Delay shall knowledge yield on either part,
And show the value of the vanquish'd heart;

prove, And gently raise the veil that's worn. by Love;

The humours, passions, merits, failings | Thus, with example sad, our year began,
A wanton vixen and a weary man;
But had this tale in other guise been told,
Young let the lover be, the lady old,
And that disparity of years shall prove
No bane of peace, although some bar to love:
'Tis not the worst, our nuptial ties among,
That joins the ancient bride and bridegroom
young;-

Love, that impatient guide!-too proud to

think

Of vulgar wants, of clothing, meat and drink, Urges our amorous swains their joys to seize,

And then, at rags and hunger frighten'd, flees:

Yet not too long in cold debate remain; Till age refrain not-but if old, refrain.

By no such rule would Gaffer Kirk be tried;

First in the year he led a blooming bride,
And stood a wither'd elder at her side.
Oh! Nathan! Nathan! at thy years, tre-
pann'd,

To take a wanton harlot by the hand! ·
Thou, who wert used so tartly to express
Thy sense of matrimonial happiness,
Till every youth, whose bans at church were
read,

Strove not to meet, or meeting, hung his head;

And every lass forbore at thee to look,
A sly old fish, too cunning for the hook;—
And now at sixty, that pert dame to see
Of all thy savings mistress, and of thee;
Now will the lads, remem'bring insults past,
Cry, What, the wise-one in the trap at last!
Fie! Nathan! fie! to let an artful jade
The close recesses of thy heart invade;
What grievous pangs! what suffering she'll
impart,

And fill with anguish that rebellious heart;
For thou wilt strive incessantly, in vain,
By threatening speech, thy freedom to re-
gain :

But she for conquest married, nor will prove A dupe to thee, thine anger, or thy love; Clamorous her tongue will be;-of either sex, She'll gather friends around thee and perplex Thy doubtful soul;-thy money she will

waste,

In the vain ramblings of a vulgar taste;
And will be happy to exert her power,
In every eye, in thine, at every hour.
Then wilt thou bluster-No! I will not rest,
And see consumed each shilling of my chest:
Thou wilt be valiant:-When thy cousins call,
I will abuse and shut my door on all:
Thou wilt be cruel:-What the law allows,
That be thy portion, my ungrateful spouse!
Nor other shillings shalt thou then receive,
And when I die-What! may I this believe?
Are these true tender tears? and does my
Kitty grieve?

Ah! crafty vixen, thine old man has fears;
But weep no more! I'm melted by thy tears;
Spare but my money; thou shalt rule ME still,
And see thy cousins- there! I burn the
will. —

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Young wives, like changing winds, their
power display,
By shifting points and varying day by day;
Now zephyrs mild, now whirlwinds in their
force,

They sometimes speed, but often thwart
our course;
And much experienced should that pilot be,
Who sails with them on life's tempestuous sca.
But like a trade-wind is the ancient dame,
Mild to your wish, and every day the same;
Steady as time, no sudden squalls you fear,
But set full sail and with assurance steer;
Till every danger in your way be past,
And then she gently, mildly breathes her last;
Rich you arrive, in port awhile remain,
And for a second venture sail again.

For this blithe Donald southward made his way,

And left the lasses on the banks of Tay; Him to a neighbouring garden fortune sent, Whom we beheld, aspiringly content: Patient and mild he sought the dame to please,

Who ruled the kitchen and who bore the keys. Fair Lucy first, the laundry's grace and pride, With smiles and gracious looks her fortune tried ;

But all in vain she praised his pawky eyne, Where never fondness was for Lucy seen: Him the mild Susan, boast of dairies, loved, And found him civil, cautious, and unmoved: From many a fragrant simple, Catharine's skill

Drew oil and essence from the boiling still; But nor her warmth, nor all her winning ways,

From his cool phlegm could Donald's spi

rit raise:

Of beauty heedless, with the merry mute,
To Mistress Dobson he preferr'd his suit;
There proved his service, there address'd
his vows,

And saw her mistress, friend, - protect-
ress,-sponse;
A butler now, he thanks his powerful bride,
And, like her keys, keeps constant at her side.

Next at our altar stood a luckless pair, Brought by strong passions and a warrant there;

By long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the bride. From ev'ry eye what all perceived to hide.

While the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his

расе,

Now hid awhile and then exposed his face; As shame alternately with anger strove, The brain confused with muddy ale to move: In haste and stammering he perform'd his part,

And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart;

(So will each lover inly curse his fate, Too soon made happy and made wise too late:)

I saw his features take a savage gloom, And deeply threaten for the days to come. Low spake the lass, and lisp'd and minced the while,

Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile; With soften'd speech and humbled tone

she strove

To stir the embers of departed love: While he, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before, Felt the poor purse and sought the public door,

She sadly following in submission went, And saw the final shilling foully spent; Then to her father's hut the pair withdrew, And bade to love and comfort long adieu! Ah! fly temptation, youth, refrain! refrain! I preach for ever; but I preach in vain.

Loud though in love, and confident though young;

Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,
He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the
coat he made :

Yet now, would Phœbe her consent afford,
Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;
With her should years of growing love be
spent,
And growing wealth:-she sigh'd and look'd

consent.

Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the green,

(Seen by but few, and blushing to be seenDejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid: Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile;

Where, as he painted every blissful view, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic

tears.

Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late,

The lover loiter'd at the master's gate; There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,

Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas-Till chidden — soothed-entreated-forced

Fair, there, When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, In haste to see and happy to be seen: Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired;

The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd

The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd,

And ease of heart her every look convey'd; A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd; The lads around admired so fair a sight, And Phœbe felt, and felt she gave, delight. Admirers soon of every age she gain'd, Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd;

Envy itself could no contempt display, They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd

away.

Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place

Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace; Bat yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour, With secret joy she felt that beauty's power, When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,

That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her breast,

away;

He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,

And oft retire and oft return again;
When, if his teazing vex'd her gentle mind,
The grief assumed compell'd her to be kind!
For he would proof of plighted kindness

crave,

That she resented first and then forgave, And to his grief and penance yielded more Than his presumption had required before.— Ah fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain, Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!

Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back,

One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains ;

Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread,

Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;

Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd; Serene her manner, till some sudden pain With looks less timid made his passion known, Frets the meek soul, and then she's" calm And pleased by manners most unlike her own; |

again;

Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,
And every step with cautious terror makes;
For not alone that infant in her arms,
But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms.
With water burthen'd then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place
unsound,

And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground; Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes,

While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes;

For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,
Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.
And now her path but not her peace she
gains,

Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains;

Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, And placing first her infant on the floor, She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, And sobbing struggles with the rising fits: In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief,

That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd.
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and
flies

With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, not allured by praise;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.
Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid,
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.

But who this child of weakness, want, and care? "Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas-Fair; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies: Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: And then his prayers! they would a savage

move,

And win the coldest of the sex to love :-
But ah! too soon his looks success declared,
Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired;
The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot,
A captious tyrant or a noisy sot:
If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd;
If absent, spending what their labours
gain'd;

Till that fair form in want and sickness pined,

And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. Then fly temptation, youth; resist, refrain! Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!

Next came a well dress'd pair, who left their coach, And made, in long procession, slow approach:

For this gay bride had many a female friend, And youths were there, this favour'd youth t' attend:

Silent, nor wanting due respect, the crowd Stood humbly round, and gratulation bow'd ; But not that silent crowd, in wonder fix'd, Not numerous friends, who praise and envy mix'd,

Nor nymphs attending near to swell the pride

Of one more fair, the ever-smiling bride; Nor that gay bride, adorn'd with every grace, Nor love nor joy triumphant in her face, Could from the youth's sad signs of sorrow chase: Why didst thou grieve? wealth, pleasure, freedom thine ;

Vex'd it thy soul, that freedom to resign? Spake Scandal truth? Thou didst not then intend

So soon to bring thy wooing to an end? Or, was it, as our prating rustics say, To end as soon, but in a different way? "Tis told thy Phillis is a skilful dame, Who play'd uninjured with the dangerous flame:

That, while, like Lovelace, thou thy coat display'd,

And hid the snare for her affection laid, Thee, with her net, she found the means to catch,

And at the amorous see-saw won the match: Yet others tell, the Captain fix'd thy doubt, He'd call three brother, or he'd call thee

out:

But rest the motive-all retreat too late, Joy like thy bride's should on thy brow have sate;

The deed had then appear'd thine own intent, A glorious day, by gracious fortune sent, In each revolving year to be in triumph spent.

Then in few weeks that cloudy brow had been

Without a wonder or a whisper seen;
And none had been so weak as to inquire:
Why pouts my Lady? or: why frowns the
Squire?

How fair these names, how much unlike they look To all the blurr'd subscriptions in my book: The bridegroom's letters stand in row above, Tapering yet stout, like pine-trees in his grove; While free and fine the bride's appear below,

As light and slender as her jasmines grow. Mark now in what confusion, stoop or stand, The crooked scrawls of many a clownish hand;

Now out, now in, they droop, they fall, they rise, Like raw recruits drawn forth for exercise:

Ere yet reform'd and modell'd by the drill The free-born legs stand striding as they will.

Much have I tried to guide the fist along, But still the blunderers placed their blottings wrong:

Behold these marks uncouth! how strange that men,

Who guide the plough, should fail to guide the pen:

For half a mile the furrows even lie;
For half an inch the letters stand awry ;-
Our peasants, strong and sturdy in the field,
Cannot these arms of idle students wield:
Like them, in feudal days, their valiant
lords

Resign'd the pen and grasp'd their conqu'r-
ing swords;
They to robed clerks and poor dependent men
Left the light duties of the peaceful pen;
Nor to their ladies wrote, but sought to
prove,

By deeds of death, their hearts were fill'd with love.

Bat yet, small arts have charms for female eyes;

Our rustic nymphs the beau and scholar

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For Lucy Collins happier days had been, Had Footman Daniel scorn'd his native green; Or when he came an idle coxcomb down, Had he his love reserved for lass in town; To Stephen Hill she then had pledged her truth,

A sturdy, sober, kind, unpolish'd youth; But from the day, that fatal day she spied The pride of Daniel, Daniel was her pride. In all concerns was Stephen just and true; But coarse his doublet was and patch'd in view,

And felt his stockings were, and blacker
than his shoe;
While Daniel's linen all was fine and fair,-
His master wore it, and he deign'd to wear:
(To wear his livery, some respect might
prove
To wear his linen, must be sign of love:)
Blue was his coat, unsoil'd by spot or stain;
His hose were silk, his shoes of Spanish-
grain;

A silver knot his breadth of shoulder bore;
A diamond-buckle blazed his breast before-
Diamond he swore it was! and show'd it as
he swore;
Rings on his fingers shone; his milk-white

hand

Join'd with these powers, he could so sweetly sing, Talk with such toss, and saunter with such swing;

Laugh with such glee,and trifle with such art, That Lucy's promise fail'd to shield her heart.

Stephen, meantime, to ease his amorous

cares,

Fix'd his full mind upon his farm's affairs; Two pigs, a cow, and wethers half a score, Increased his stock, and still he look'd for

more.

He, for his acres few, so duly paid,
That yet more acres to his lot were laid;
Till our chaste nymphs no longer felt disdain,
And prudent matrons praised the frugal
swain;

Who thriving well, through many a fruitful

year,

Now clothed himself anew, and acted Over

seer.

Just then poor Lucy, from her friend in town,

Fled in pure fear, and came a beggar down; Trembling at Stephen's door she knock'd for bread,

Was chidden first, next pitied, and then fed; Then sat at Stephen's board, then shared in Stephen's bed: All hope of marriage lost in her disgrace, He mourns a flame revived, and she a love of lace.

Now to be wed a well-match'd couple

Twice had old Lodge

Tottering they came

came;

been tied, and twice the dame; and toying, (odious scene!) And fond and simple, as they'd always been. Children from wedlock we by laws restrain; Why not prevent them, when they're such again?

Why not forbid the doting souls, to prove
Th' indecent fondling of preposterous love?
In spite of prudence, uncontroll'd by shame,
The amorous senior woos the toothless dame,
Relating idly, at the closing eve,
The youthful follies he disdains to leave;
Till youthful follies wake a transient fire,
When arm in arm they totter and retire.
So a fond pair of solemn birds all day
Blink in their seat and doze the hours away;
Then, by the moon awaken'd, forth they

move,

And fright the songsters with their cheerless love.

So two sear trees, dry, stunted, and unsound, Each other catch, when dropping to the ground;

Could pick-tooth-case and box for snuff Entwine their wither'd arms 'gainst wind

command:

and weather, And thus, with clouded cane, a fop complete, And shake their leafless heads and drop He stalk'd, the jest and glory of the street.

together.

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