Dissatisfied, yet all live on, and each

Has his own comforts.

WOMAN.

Sir! d'ye see that horse

Turn'd out to common here by the way side?
He's high in bone, you may tell every rib
Even at this distance. Mind him I how he turns
His head, to drive away the flies that feed
On his gall'd shoulder! there's just grass enough
To disappoint his whetted appetite.

You see his comforts Sir !

TRAVELLER.

A wretched beast!

Hard labour and worse usage he endures

From some bad master. But the lot of the poor

Is not like his.

WOMAN,

In truth it is not Sir !

For when the horse lies down at night, no cares
About to-morrow vex him in his dreams;
He knows no quarter-day, and when he gets
Some musty hay or patch of hedge-row grass,
He has no hungry children to claim part
Of his half meal!

TRAVELLER.

"Tis idleness makes want,

And idle habits. If the man will go

And spend his evenings by the ale-house fire,
Whom can he blame if there is want at home?

WOMAN.

Aye! idleness! the rich folks never fail
To find some reason why the poor deserve
Their miseries! is it idleness I pray you
That brings the fever or the ague fit?
That makes the sick one's sickly appetite
Turn at the dry bread and potatoe meal?
Is it idleness that makes small wages fail
For growing wants? six years agone, these bells
Rung on my wedding day, and I was told

What I might look for,—but I did not heed
Good counsel. I had lived in service Sir,

Knew never what it was to want a meal;

Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday

My linen gown, and when the pedlar came

Could buy me a new ribbon :—and my husband,

A towardly young man and well to do,

He had his silver buckles and his watch,

There was not in the village one who look'd
Sprucer on holydays. We married Sir,

And we had children, but as wants increas'd
Wages did not. The silver buckles went,
So went the watch, and when the holyday coat
Was worn to work, no new one in its place.
For me-you see my rags! but I deserve them,
For wilfully like this new-married pair
I went to my undoing,

TRAVELLER.

But the Parish

* A farmer once told the Author of Malvern Hills, "that he almost constantly remarked a gradation of changes in those men he had been in the habit of employing. Young men, he said, were generally neat in their appearance, active and cheerful, till they became married and had a family, when he had observed that their silver buttons, buckles and watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday's clothes became common without any other to supply their place,—but said he, some good comes from this, for they will then work for whatever they can get.

Note to Cottle's MALVERN HILLS..

WOMAN.

Aye, it falls heavy there, and yet their pittance
Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect,
To slave while there is strength, in age the workhouse,
A parish shell at last, and the little bell
Toll'd hastily for a pauper's funeral !

TRAVELLER.

Is this your child?

WOMAN,

Aye Sir, and were he drest

And clean, he'd be as fine a boy to look on

As the Squire's young master. These thin rags of his

Let comfortably in the summer wind;

But when the winter comes, it pinches me

To see the little wretch! I've three besides,
And-God forgive me! but I often wish

To see them in their coffins.-God reward you!
God bless you for your charity!

TRAVELLER.

You have taught me

To give sad meaning to the village bells!

The POET PERPLEXT.

Brain! you must work! begin or we shall lose The day while yet we only think upon it. The hours run on and yet you will not chuse

The subject-come-ode, elegy, or sonnet. You must contribute Brain! in this hard time; Taxes are high, food dear, and you must rhyme.

"Twere well if when I rubb'd my itchless head, The fingers with benignant stimulation Could thro' the medullary substance spread The motions of poetic inspiration;

But scratch, or knock, or shake my head about,

The motions may go in, but nought comes out,