Those thankless and officious cares
I used to take in friends’ affairs,
From which I never could refrain,
And have been often chid in vain;
From these I am recover’d quite,
At least in what regards the knight. 
Preserve his health, his store increase;
May nothing interrupt his peace! 
But now let all his tenants round
First milk his cows, and after, pound;
Let every cottager conspire
To cut his hedges down for fire;
The naughty boys about the village
His crabs and sloes may freely pillage;
He still may keep a pack of knaves
To spoil his work, and work by halves;
His meadows may be dug by swine,
It shall be no concern of mine;
For why should I continue still
To serve a friend against his will?

[Footnote 1:  Sir Arthur Acheson’s great-grandfather was Sir Archibald, of Gosford, in Scotland.]

THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL 1730

From distant regions Fortune sends
An odd triumvirate of friends;
Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend,
Where never yet a codling ripen’d: 
Hither the frantic goddess draws
Three sufferers in a ruin’d cause: 
By faction banish’d, here unite,
A Dean,[1] a Spaniard,[2] and a Knight;[3]
Unite, but on conditions cruel;
The Dean and Spaniard find it too well,
Condemn’d to live in service hard;
On either side his honour’s guard: 
The Dean to guard his honour’s back,
Must build a castle at Drumlack;[4]
The Spaniard, sore against his will,
Must raise a fort at Market-Hill. 
And thus the pair of humble gentry
At north and south are posted sentry;
While in his lordly castle fixt,
The knight triumphant reigns betwixt: 
And, what the wretches most resent,
To be his slaves, must pay him rent;
Attend him daily as their chief,
Decant his wine, and carve his beef. 
O Fortune! ’tis a scandal for thee
To smile on those who are least worthy: 
Weigh but the merits of the three,
His slaves have ten times more than he. 
  Proud baronet of Nova Scotia! 
The Dean and Spaniard must reproach ye: 
Of their two fames the world enough rings: 
Where are thy services and sufferings? 
What if for nothing once you kiss’d,
Against the grain, a monarch’s fist? 
What if, among the courtly tribe,
You lost a place and saved a bribe? 
And then in surly mood came here,
To fifteen hundred pounds a-year,
And fierce against the Whigs harangu’d? 
You never ventured to be hang’d. 
How dare you treat your betters thus? 
Are you to be compared with us? 
  Come, Spaniard, let us from our farms
Call forth our cottagers to arms: 
Our forces let us both unite,
Attack the foe at left and right;
From Market-Hill’s[5] exalted head,
Full northward let your troops be led;
While I from Drapier’s-Mount descend,
And to the south my squadrons bend.