Employs, shut out from more important views, A monitor's, though not a poet's praise, To close life wisely, may not waste my own. 309 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, The troubles of a worthy priest The priest he merry is and blithe 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 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 Is not to be expressed, When he that takes and he that pays Are both alike distressed. 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 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 ever 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, 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 of hail, And one of pigs, that he has lost |