THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR

TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX:

VERSES addreffed to a Country Clergyman complaining the difagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the Dues at the Parfonage.

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jeft,

To laugh it would be wrong, The troubles of a worthy priest The burden of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of the year,

But oh! it cuts him like a fithe

When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears

He heaves up many a figh.

For then the farmers come jog, jog, Along the miry road,

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In footh, the forrow of fuch days
Is not to be express'd,

When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike diftrefs'd.

Now all, unwelcome, at his gates

The clumsy swains alight,

With rueful faces and bald pates

He trembles at the fight.

And well he may, for well he knows

Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes, Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come-each makes his leg, And flings his head before,

And looks as if he came to beg,

And not to quit a score.

· And how does mifs and madam do,

'The little boy and all?'

'All tight and well. And how do you, 'Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?'

The dinner comes, and down they fit:
Were e'er fuch hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his fleeve,

One fpits 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 ftill 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 froft,

And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs that he has loft® 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 fell it plaguy dear.'

Oh, why are farmers made fo coarse,

Or clergy made so fine!

A kick that fcarce would move a horfe May kill a found divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould coft him, I dare say,

Lefs trouble taking twice the fum,
Without the clowns that pay.

Dr. DARWIN,

Author of "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

Two Poets,* (poets, by report,
Not oft fo well agree)

Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!
Confpire to honour Thee.

They beft 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 fong,
Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as ftrong,

And learn'd as it is sweet.

No envy mingles with our praife,
Though, could our hearts repine

At any poet's happier lays,

They would-they must at thine!

*Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied this.