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One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Holds up the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;
They only weigh the heavier.
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
By maggots at the tail.
• A rarer man than you
In pulpit none shall hear:
You sell it plaguy dear.'
Oh, why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine!
A kick that scarce would move a horse
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.
AUTHOR OF THE BOTANIC GARDEN,
Two poets,* (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree)
Conspire to honour Thee.
They best can judge a poet's worth
Who oft themselves have known
pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.
We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy song,
Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as strong,
And learn'd as it is sweet.
Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied this.
No envy mingles with our praise,
Though could our hearts repine At any poet's happier lays,
They would, they must, at thine.
But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship's closest tie, Can gaze on even Darwin's wit
With an unjaundiced eye;
And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,
And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,
Unworthy of his own.
The Birds put off their iv'ry hue
The Peacock sends his heav'nly dyes,
And, river-blanch'd, the Swan, his snow.
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine or vivid flame,