Around that friendly board, with plenty spread Where rise the bones in many a greasy heap, Each in his easy chair supinely laid, The Sons of toil their annual revel keep. The forest moaning hollow in the gale; The cold and cheerless winds surcharg’d with snow; The headlong torrent rushing down the vale; Compel them not their banquet to forego. For them no far-fetcht luxuries are spread, Nor costly Burgundy their care beguiles: Yet Peace and Plenty at their table-head Are seen, with all their family of smiles. Oft did they fast throughout the by-gone year, Their looks confirm the truth of what I say; How patiently they bore their lot severe! How did they welcome this auspicious day! Oh! let not Lux’ry mock their diet plain, Their flowing can, and toasts of pretty maids; Nor titled Pride behold, with proud disdain, The poor, but neat, repast, that Labour spreads. The crowd, that forms sweet smiling Pleasure’s train, And all that fickle fortune’s favours share, Confess alike the iron sway of pain; The paths of power are but the paths of care. Nor you, ye rich! account it as a fault, Though at their board no chosen wines are plac’d Where the inspiring quintessence of malt, Lulls every sorrow, every care to rest. Can luxury’s sons in bloom, or vigour, vie With those of industry and toil severe? Can creams and jellies taste like yonder pye; Or claret string the nerves like nappy beer? Perhaps at this carousal might be found, Some heart that oft has bled at Mis’ry’s cry; Hands that could hurl oppression to the ground, Or wipe the falling tear from Sorrow’s eye. But these hard times a cheerless gloom have thrown O’er all their smiling prospects of delight; Chill Penury, with heart-apalling frown, And hollow eye, now stands before their sight. Full many a tear bedims Misfortune’s eye, And, streaming from its source, unseen descends. Full many a sad and unavailing sigh Is breath’d in secret――and with ether blends. Some unknown Howard, that, with pity smit, Has oft explor’d Affliction’s sad retreat; Some poor unhonour’d Nelson here may sit; Some Burns, that sings and struggles with his fate. Th’ applause of jolly topers to obtain, At feasts to crack a bottle with Lord May’r; To scour the watch along some dirty lane, And rend with loud huzzas the midnight air, Fortune forbids.――Nor circumscribes alone Their pleasures, but their sorrows too confines; Forbids in private sadly to bemoan The gout and all the ills debauch combines; The treach’rous perfidy of friends to prove, To lose at play a fortune, madly driven; Or, for some loose-rob’d wanton strumpet’s love, Risk life, and all their future hopes of heav’n.