THE

ROYAL VISIT TO EXETER;

A POETICAL EPISTLE,

BY

JOHN PLOUGHSHARE,

A FARMER OF MORTON HAMPSTEAD, IN THE COUNTY OF DEVON.

WELL; in a come King George to town,
With doust and zweat az Nutmeg brown,

The Hosses all in smoke:

Huzzain, trumpetin, and dringin,

Red colours vleein, roarin, zingin;
Zo mad simm'd all the voke.

VOL. III.

2 H

THE ROYAL VISIT.

PART I.

I PROMISED thee, dear Zester Nan,

That thee shudst hear vrom Brether Jan, About the King, wey speed;

And now I zet me down to write,

To tell thee every thing outright,

The whole that I've azeed.

Now meend me, Nan: all Exter town Was gapin, rennin up and down,

Vath, just leek vokes bewitch'd.

Lord! how they lang'd to zee the King; To hear un zay zom marv'lous thing! Leek mangy Dogs they itch'd.

Leek Bullocks sting'd by Appledranes,
Currantin it about the lanes,

Vokes theese way dreav'd and that;

Zom hootin, heavin, soalin, hawlin;

Zom in the mucks, and pellum sprawlin;

Leek Pancakes all zo flat.

Hosses and mares, assnegers, moyles,

Leaping the hedges, ditches, stiles,

Hunderds comm'd in at least;

Gallopin, trattin, spurrin, vallin,
Hallooin, laughin, cryin, squawlin,
Vour mounted pon one beast.

The Ladies vrom the windors all

Poked vorth their powls, both gert and small;

Ecod, there were a power:

Their hair zo white, I'd zexpence stake

That vrom their powls I'd fairly shake

A dezen zacks o' vlower.

To spoil good vlower, a spendthrift crew!
Ould Time wull whitten vast anew

The locks o' um, never fear:

Bezides, it is a burnin shame,
And makin of God's gifts a game,
Considerin corn's so dear.

And yet the perty Maids, I vow,
Make me vorgive, I can't tell how,

TO EXETER.

Thoft 'tis a serious matter:

But what wey zich have I to do?

Vor Joan and Nell, and Madge and Sue,

My mouthe must only water.

But than agan, Iss can't but zay,
Iss could look at mun a whole day,
They look'd so vair and vresh:
Iss long'd to gee zome hearty smacks
Upon their little rosy chacks,

They seem'd zech wholsome vlesh.

Well in a come King George to town,
With doust and zweat as Nutmeg brown,
The hosses all in smoke:

Huzzain, trumpetin, and dringin,
Red colours vleein, roarin, zingin;
So mad seem'd all the voke.

Wipin his zweatty jaws and poull,
All over doust we spied Squire Rolle,

Close by the King's coach trattin :
Now shovin in the coach his head;
Meaning, we giss'd, it might be zed,

"The Squire and King be chattin."