« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
Dissatisfied, yet all live on, and each
Has his own comforts.
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
For when the horse lies down at night, no cares
"Tis idleness makes want,
And idle habits. If the man will go
And spend his evenings by the ale-house fire,
Aye! idleness! the rich folks never fail
What I might look for,—but I did not heed
Knew never what it was to want a meal;
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
And we had children, but as wants increas'd
So went the watch, and when the holyday coat
I went to my undoing,
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..
Aye, it falls heavy there, and yet their pittance
Is this your child ?
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,
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,