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 Like barrels with their bellies full, 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 Quoth one, A rarer man than you 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; Less trouble taking twice the sum, 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 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 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, Proud to advance it all they can. This plumage neither dashing show'r, Nor blasts that shake the dripping bow'r, |