But foon difcerning, with fagacious nofe,
The well-known favour of the parson's toes,
Lays down his head, and finks in soft repose.
The doctor entering, to the tankard ran,
Takes a good hearty pull, and thus began t
PARSON.

Why fit'ft thou, thus forlorn and dull, my friend,
Now war's rapacious reign is at an end?

Hark, how the diftant bells infpire delight!.

See, bonfires spangle o'er the veil of night!

SQUIRE.

What's peace, alas! in foreign parts, to me?
At home, nor peace nor plenty can I see ;
Joylefs, I hear drums, bells, and fiddles found,
'Tis all the fame-four fhillings in the pound.
My wheels, tho' old, are clogg'd with a new tax;
My oaks, tho' young, muft groan beneath the axe:
My barns are half unthatch'd, untiled my houfe,
Loft by this fatal fickness all my cows:

See, there's the bill my late damn'd law-fuit cost!
Long as the land contended for-and loft:
E'en Ormond's Head I can frequent no more,
So fhort my pocket is, fo long the score;
At fhops all round I owe for fifty things-
This comes of fetching Hanoverian kings.

PARSON.

I must confefs the times are bad, indeed!
No wonder when we scarce believe our creed;
When purblind Reason's deem'd the surest guide,
And heaven-born Faith at her tribunal try'd:

When all church-power is thought to make men flaves,
Saints, martyrs, fathers, all call'd fools and knaves.

SQUIRE.

}

Come, preach no more, but drink and hold your tongue.

I'm for the church: but think the parfons wrong.

PAR

*

PARSON.

See there! Free-thinking now so rank is grown,
It spreads infection thro' each country town ;*
Deiftick fcoffs fly round at rural boards,

Squires, and their tenants too, prophane as lords,
Vent impious jokes on every facred thing-

Come, drink!

SQUIRE.

PARSON,

Here's to you, then; to church and king,

SQUIRE.

Here's church and king; I hate the glass should stand;
Tho' one takes tithes, and t’other taxes land.

PARSON.

Heaven with new plagues will scourge this finful nation, Unless we foon repeal the toleration,

And to the church restore the convocation.

SQUIRE.

Plagues we should feel fufficient, on my word, Starv'd by two houses, prieft-rid by a third.

For better days we lately had a chance,

Had not the honeft Plaids been trick'd by France.
PARSON.

Is not most gracious George our faith's defender?
You love the church, yet wish for the Pretender!
SQUIRE.

Preferment, I fuppofe, is what you mean;
Turn Whig, and you, perhaps, may be a dean;
But you must first learn how to treat your betters.
What's here fure fome strange news; a boy with letters }
Oho! here's one, I fee, from Parfon Sly:

My reverend neighbour Squab being like to die,
I hope, if Heaven should please to take him hence,
To ask the living would be no offence.'

PARSON.

Have you not fwore, that I fhould Squab fucceed? Think how for this I taught your fons to read;

How

How oft discover'd pufs on new-plough'd land;
How oft fupported you with friendly hand,

When I could scarcely go, nor could your worship ftand.

SQUIRE.

'Twas yours, had you been honeft, wife, or civil; Now e'en go court the bishops-or the devil.

PARSON.

If I meant any thing, now let me die ;
I'm blunt, and cannot fawn and cant, not I,
Like that old prefbyterian rafcal Sly.

I am, you know, a right true-hearted Tory,
Love a good glass, a merry fong, or story.

SQUIRE.

Thou art an honeft dog, that's truth, indeed;
Talk no more nonsense, then, about the creed.
I can't, I think, deny thy first request:

'Tis thine; but first, a bumper to the best.

PARSON.

Most noble squire, more generous than your wine,

How pleafing's the condition you affign!

Give me the sparkling glass, and here, d'ye fee,

With joy I drink it on my bended knee.

Great Queen +! who governest this earthly ball,
And mak'st both kings, and kingdoms, rise and fall;
Whose wonderous power in fecret all things rules,
Makes fools of mighty peers, and peers of fools;
Dispenses mitres, coronets, and stars ;
Involves far diftant realms in bloody wars,

Then bids the fnaky treffes cease to hiss,

And gives them peace again-nay, giv'ft us this;
Whose health does health to all mankind impart :-
Here's to thy much-lov'd health!

SQUIRE, rubbing his hands.

}

THE

THE POOR MAN'S PRAYER.

WRITTEN IN M DCC LXVI.

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CHATHAM.

A

BY DR. ROBERTS.

MIDST the more important toils of state,
The counfels labouring in thy patriot foul,
Tho' Europe from thy voice expect her fate,
And thy keen glance extend from pole to pole:

O Chatham! nurs'd in ancient Virtue's lore,
To these fad ftrains incline a favouring ear;
Think on the God, whom thou and I adore,
Nor turn unpitying from the poor man's prayer!

Ah, me! how blefs'd was once a peafant's life!
No lawless paffion fwell'd my even breast:
Far from the ftormy waves of civil ftrife,
Sound were my flumbers, and my heart at reft.

I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasures rov'd,
But taught by Nature, and by choice, to wed,
From all the hamlet cull'd whom beft I lov'd,
With her I staid my heart, with her my

bed.

To gild her worth, I afk'd no wealthy power,
My toil could feed her, and my arm defend;
In youth, or age, in pain, or pleasure's hour,
The fame fond husband, father, brother, friend.

And fhe, the faithful partner of my care,

When ruddy evening ftreak'd the western sky, Look'd tow'rds the uplands, if her mate was there, Or thro' the beech-wood caft an anxious eye:

Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board
With favoury herbs, and pick'd the nicer part
From fuch plain food as Nature could afford,

Ere fimple Nature was debauch'd by Art;

While I, contented with my homely chear,
Saw round my knees my prattling children play;
And oft, with pleas'd attention, fat to hear
The little hiftory of their idle day.

But ah! how chang'd the fcene! On the cold ftones
Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire,
Pale Famine fits, and counts her naked bones,
Still fighs for food, still pines with vain defire.

My faithful wife, with ever-ftreaming eyes,
Hangs on my bofom her dejected head;
My helpless infants raise their feeble cries,
And from their father claim their daily bread...

Dear tender pledges of my honeft love,

On that bare bed behold your brother lie: Three tedious days with pinching want hé ftrove, The fourth, I faw the helpless cherub die.

Nor long fhall ye remain. With vifage four
Our tyrant lord commands us from our home;
And arm'd with cruel Law's coercive power,

Bids me and mine o'er barren mountains roam.

Yet.