Our Farmers round, well pleas’d with constant gain, Like other farmers, flourish and complain.-- These are our Groups; our Portraits next appear, And close our Exhibition for the Year. * * * * * With evil omen, we that Year begin: A Child of Shame,--stern Justice adds, of Sin, Is first recorded;--I would hide the deed, But vain the wish; I sigh and I proceed: And could I well th’ instructive truth convey, ’Twould warn the Giddy and awake the Gay. Of all the Nymphs, who gave our Village grace, The _Miller_’s Daughter had the fairest Face; Proud was the Miller; Money was his pride, He rode to Market, as our Farmers ride, And ’twas his boast, inspir’d by spirits, there, His favourite _Lucy_ should be rich as fair; But she must meek and still obedient prove, And not presume, without his leave, to love. A youthful _Sailor_ heard him;--“Ha!” quoth he, “This _Miller_’s Maiden is a prize for me; “Her Charms I love, his Riches I desire, “And all his threats but fan the kindling fire; “My ebbing purse, no more the Foe shall fill, “But Love’s kind act and _Lucy_ at the Mill.” Thus thought the Youth, and soon the chace began, Stretch’d all his sail, nor thought of pause or plan: His trusty staff, in his bold hand, he took, Like him and like his Frigate, _Heart of Oak_; Fresh were his features, his attire was new; Clean was his linen and his jacket blue; Of finest _jean_ his trowsers tight and trim, Brush’d the large buckle at the silver rim. He soon arriv’d, he trac’d the Village-green, There saw the Maid, and was with pleasure seen; Then talk’d of Love, till _Lucy_’s yielding heart Confess’d ’twas painful, though ’twas right to part. “For ah! my Father has an haughty soul, “Whom best he loves, he loves but to controul; “Me to some churl in bargain he’ll consign, “And make some tyrant of the Parish, mine; “Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe, “Has often forc’d, but never shed the tear; “Save when my Mother died, some drops express’d “A kind of sorrow for a Wife at rest:-- “To me a Master’s stern regard is shown, “I’m like his steed, priz’d highly as his own; “Stroak’d but corrected, threaten’d when supplied, “His slave and boast, his victim and his pride.” ‘Cheer up, my Lass! I’ll to thy Father go, ‘The _Miller_ cannot be the Sailor’s foe; ‘Both live by Heaven’s free gale that plays aloud ‘In the stretch’d canvass and the piping shroud; ‘The rush of winds, the flapping sails above, ‘And rattling planks within, are sounds we love; ‘Calms are our dread; when Tempests plough the Deep. ‘We take a Reef, and to the rocking, sleep.’ “Ha!” quoth the _Miller_, mov’d at speech so rash, “Art thou like me? Then where thy Notes and Cash? “Away to _Wapping_, and a Wife command,