A box of tools, with wires of various size, 240 } Frocks, wigs, and hats, for night or day disguise, } And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize. } To every house belongs a space of ground, Of equal size, once fenced with paling round; That paling now by slothful waste destroy'd, Dead gorse and stumps of elder fill the void, Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay Hide sots and striplings at their drink or play. Within, a board, beneath a tiled retreat, Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat; 250 Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows; Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows; Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile, The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings vile; Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door, And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor. Here his poor bird th'inhuman cocker brings, Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings; With spicy food th'impatient spirit feeds, And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds. 260 Struck through the brain, deprived of both his eyes, The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies; Must faintly peck at his victorious foe, And reel and stagger at each feeble blow. When fall'n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes, His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes; And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake, And only bled and perish'd for his sake. Such are our peasants, those to whom we yield Praise with relief, the fathers of the field; 270 And these who take, from our reluctant hands, What Burn advises or the Bench commands. Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, Like other farmers, flourish and complain.-- These are our groups; our portraits next appear, And close our exhibition for the year. * * * * *