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Now, mistress Gilpin, when the faw
Her husband pofting down

Into the country far away,

She pull'd out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth the faid
That drove them to the Bell-
This shall be your's when you bring back
My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and foon did meet
John coming back amain;

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein;

But, not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him fafter run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went poft-boy at his heels !

The poft-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus feeing Gilpin fly,

With poft-boy scamp'ring in the rear,
They rais'd the hue and cry:-

Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman! Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the purfuit.

And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And fo he did and won it too!
For he got first to town;

Nor stopp'd till where he had got up
He did again get down.

Now let us fing-Long live the king,
And Gilpin long live he;

And, when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to fee!

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THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR

TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX:

VERSES addressed 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 jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest
The burden of my fong.

This prieft 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.

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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 such days
Is not to be express'd,

When he that takes and he that pays
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 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.

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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 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 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.

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