In all rebellions _Richard_ join’d the rest, In all detections _Richard_ first confess’d; Yet though disgrac’d, he watch’d his time so well, He rose in favour, when in fame he fell; Base was his usage, vile his whole employ, And all despis’d and fed the pliant boy: At length, “‘tis time he should abroad be sent,” Was whisper’d near him,--and abroad he went; One morn they call’d him, _Richard_ answer’d not, They doom’d him hanging and in time forgot,-- Yet miss’d him long, as each, throughout the clan, Found he “had better spar’d a better man.” Now _Richard_’s talents for the world were fit, He’d no small cunning and had some small wit; Had that calm look which seem’d to all assent, And that complacent speech which nothing meant; He’d but one care and that he strove to hide, How best for _Richard Monday_ to provide; Steel, through opposing plates the Magnet draws, And steelly atoms culls from dust and straws; And thus our Hero, to his interest true, Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew; But still more surely round the world to go, This Fortune’s Child, had neither friend nor foe. Long lost to us, at last our man we trace, Sir _Richard Monday_ died at _Monday-place_; His Lady’s worth, his Daughter’s we peruse; And find his Grandsons all as rich as Jews; He gave reforming Charities a sum, And bought the blessings of the Blind and Dumb; Bequeath’d to Missions money from the Stocks, And Bibles issu’d from his private box; But to his native place severely just, He left a pittance bound in rigid trust; Two paltry pounds, on every quarter’s-day, (At church produc’d) for forty loaves should pay; A stinted gift, that to the Parish shows, He kept in mind their bounty and their blows! To Farmers three, the Year has giv’n a Son, _Finch_ on the Moor, and _French_ and _Middleton_; Twice in this year a female _Giles_ I see, A _Spalding_ once, and once a _Barnaby_; An humble man is he and when they meet, Our Farmers find him on a distant seat; There for their wit he serves a constant theme, “They praise his Dairy, they extol his Team, “They ask the price of each unrivall’d Steed, “And whence his Sheep, that admirable breed; “His thriving arts they beg he would explain, “And where he puts the Money he must gain:-- “They have their Daughters, but they fear their friend “Would think his Sons too much would condescend;-- “They have their Sons who would their fortunes try, “But fear his Daughters will their suit deny.” So runs the joke, while _James_ with sigh profound, And face of care, keeps looking on the ground; These looks and sighs provoke the insult more, And point the jest--for _Barnaby_ is poor.