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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,

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.

Quoth one,

A rarer man than you

In pulpit none shall hear:
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,

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.

ADDRESSED TO

Dr. DARWIN,

AUTHOR OF THE BOTANIC GARDEN,

Two poets,* (poets, by report,

Not oft so well agree)
Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!

Conspire to honour Thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth

Who oft themselves have known

The

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.

ON

MRS. MONTAGUE'S

FEATHER-HANGINGS.

The Birds put off their iv'ry hue
To dress a room for Montague.

The Peacock sends his heav'nly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The Pheasant, plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The Cock his arch'd tail's azure show;

And, river-blanch'd, the Swan, his snow.

All tribes beside of Indian name,

That glossy shine or vivid flame,
Where rises, and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing show'r,
Nor blasts that shake thc dripping bow'r,

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