“Alas! alas!” Old England now may say,
“My glory withers; it has had its day: 
We’re fallen on evil times; men read and think;
Our bold forefathers loved to fight and drink. 
“Then lived the good ’Squire Asgill—­what a change
Has death and fashion shown us at the Grange! 
He bravely thought it best became his rank
That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank;
He was delighted from his favourite room
To see them ’cross the park go daily home
Praising aloud the liquor and the host,
And striving who should venerate him most. 
   “No pride had he, and there was difference small
Between the master’s and the servant’s hall: 
And here or there the guests were welcome all. 
Of Heaven’s free gifts he took no special care,
He never quarrell’d for a simple hare;
But sought, by giving sport, a sportman’s name,
Himself a poacher, though at other game: 
He never planted nor inclosed—­his trees
Grew, like himself, untroubled and at ease: 
Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had felt
Chok’d and imprison’d in a modern belt,
Which some rare genius now has twined about
The good old house, to keep old neighbours out. 
Along his valleys, in the evening-hours,
The borough-damsels stray’d to gather flowers,
Or by the brakes and brushwood of the park,
To take their pleasant rambles in the dark. 
   “Some prudes, of rigid kind, forbore to call
On the kind females—­favourites at the hall;
But better nature saw, with much delight,
The different orders of mankind unite: 
’Twas schooling pride to see the footman wait,
Smile on his sister and receive her plate. 
   “His worship ever was a churchman true,
He held in scorn the Methodistic crew;
‘May God defend the Church, and save the King,’
He’d pray devoutly and divinely sing. 
Admit that he the holy day would spend
As priests approved not, still he was a friend: 
Much then I blame the preacher, as too nice,
To call such trifles by the name of vice;
Hinting, though gently and with cautious speech,
Of good example—­’tis their trade to preach. 
But still ’twas pity, when the worthy ’squire
Stuck to the church, what more could they require? 
’Twas almost joining that fanatic crew,
To throw such morals at his honour’s pew;
A weaker man, had he been so reviled,
Had left the place—­he only swore and smiled. 
   “But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think,
Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink;
Conceive not—­mounted on your Sunday-throne,
Your firebrands fall upon your foes alone;
They strike your patrons—­and should all withdraw,
In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw,
You would the flower of all your audience lose,
And spend your crackers on their empty pews. 
   “The father dead, the son has found a wife,
And lives a formal, proud, unsocial life; —
The lands are now inclosed; the tenants all,