morn,
Time flapp’d along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn! 
I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife—­
A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life—­
But who hath felt a horse’s weight oppress his laboring breast? 
Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.

A PASTORAL REPORT.

One Sunday morning—­service done—­
’Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,
A knot of bumpkins stood to chat
Of that and this, and this and that;
What people said of Polly Hatch—­
Which side had won the-cricket match;
And who was cotch’d, and who was bowl’d;—­
How barley, beans, and ’taters sold—­
What men could swallow at a meal—­
When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal—­
And who was taken off to jail—­
And where they brew’d the strongest ale—­
At last this question they address,
“What’s Agricultural Distress?”

HODGE.

“For my peart, it’s a thought o’ mine,
It be the fancy farming line,
Like yonder gemman,—­him I mean,
As took the Willa nigh the Green,—­
And turn’d his cattle in the wheat;
And gave his porkers hay to eat;
And sent his footman up to town,
To ax the Lonnon gentry down,
To be so kind as make his hay,
Exactly on St. Swithin’s day;—­
With consequences you may guess—­
That’s Hagricultural Distress.”

DICKON.

“Last Monday morning, Master Blogg
Com’d for to stick our bacon-hog;
But th’ hog he cock’d a knowing eye,
As if he twigg’d the reason why,
And dodg’d and dodg’d ’un such a dance,
He didn’t give the noose a chance;
So Master Blogg at last lays off,
And shams a rattle at the trough,
When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog
Atwixt the legs o’ Master Blogg,
And flops him down in all the muck,
As hadn’t been swept up by luck—­
Now that, accordin’ to my guess,
Be Hagricultural Distress.”

GILES.

“No, that arn’t it, I tell ’ee flat;
I’ze bring a worser case nor that!”
“Last Friday week, I takes a start
To Reading, with our horse and cart;
Well, when I’ze set the ’taters down,
I meets a crony at the Crown;
And what betwixt the ale and Tom,
It’s dark afore I starts for home;
So whipping hard, by long and late,
At last we reaches nigh the gate,
And, sure enough, there Master stand,
A lantern flaring in his hand,—­
‘Why, Giles,’ says he, ’what’s that ’un thear? 
Yond’ chestnut horse bean’t my bay mear! 
He bean’t not worth a leg o’ Bess!’
There’s Hagricultural Distress!”

HOB.