Pursue the theme, and you shall find
A disciplined and furnish'd mind
To be at least expedient,
And, after summing all the rest,
Religion ruling in the breast
A principal ingredient.

True friendship has, in short, a grace
More than terrestrial in its face,

That proves it Heaven-descended;
Man's love of woman not so pure,
Nor, when sincerest, so secure
To last till life is ended. *




A STRANGER'S purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate and not to praise ;
To give the creature the Creator's due
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or e'en to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by Craft for Folly's use design'd,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown:
No traveller ever reach'd that bless'd abode,
Who found not thorns and briers in his road.

The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain;
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread;
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end.

But He, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls his grace design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,

Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, "Go spend them in the vale of tears!"
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!

O salutary streams that murmur there!

These flowing from the Fount of Grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys,
An envious world will interpose its frown
To mar delights superior to its own,
And many a pang experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin;
But ills of every shape and every name,
Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim;
And every moment's calm that sooths the breast
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast
Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste!
No shepherd's tents within thy view appear,
But the chief Shepherd even there is near;

Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ;
Thy tears all issue from a source divine,
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine.
So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,
And drought on all the drooping herbs around.





COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
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 scythe
When tithing-time draws near.

He then is full of frights and fears,
As one at point to die,

And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.

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

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In sooth the sorrow of such days

Is not to be express'd,

When he that takes and he that

Are both alike distress'd.


Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates ;-
He trembles at the sight.

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 miss 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 sit :
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

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 and 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 plaguey 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.

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