See! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest! What nauseous fragments on yon fractur’d chest! What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat! And round these posts that serve this bed for feet; This bed where all those tatter’d garments lie, Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by! See! as we gaze, an Infant lifts its head, Left by neglect and burrow’d in that bed; The Mother-gossip has the love supprest, An Infant’s cry once waken’d in her breast; And daily prattles, as her round she takes, (With strong resentment) of the want she makes. Whence all these woes?--From want of virtuous will, Of honest shame, of time-improving skill; From want of care t’ employ the vacant hour, And want of ev’ry kind but want of power. Here are no Wheels for either Wool or Flax, But packs of Cards--made up of sundry packs; Here is no Clock, nor will they turn the Glass, And see how swift th’ important moments pass; Here are no Books, but ballads on the wall, Are some abusive, and indecent all; Pistols are here, unpair’d; with Nets and Hooks, Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks; An ample flask that nightly rovers fill, With recent poison from the Dutchman’s still; A Box of Tools with wires of various size, } 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 fenc’d 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 and play; Within, a board, beneath a til’d retreat, Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat; 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; Struck through the brain, depriv’d 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 Glories unsought, the Fathers of the Field; And these who take from our reluctant hands, What _Burn_ advises or the Bench commands.