(Old _Roger_ said:)--“thy Words are brave and true; “Come, live with me; we’ll vex those Scoundrel-Boys: “And that prim Shrew shall, envying, hear our Joys.”-- “Tobacco’s glorious Fume, all Day we’ll share, “With Beef and Brandy kill all kinds of Care, “We’ll Beer and Biscuit on our Table heap, “And rail at Rascals, till we fall asleep.” Such was their Life: but when the Woodman died, His grieving Kin for _Roger_’s Smiles applied;-- In vain; he shut, with stern Rebuke, the Door, And dying, built a Refuge for the Poor; With this Restriction, That no _Cuff_ should share One Meal or shelter for one Moment there. My Record ends:--But hark! ev’n now I hear The Bell of Death and know not whose to fear: Our Farmers all and all our Hinds were well; In no Man’s Cottage, Danger seem’d to dwell:-- Yet Death of Man proclaim these heavy Chimes, For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times. “Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose Days are sped?”---- “What! he, himself!--and is old _Dibble_ dead?” His Eightieth Year he reach’d, still undecay’d, And Rectors five to one close Vault convey’d:-- But he is gone; his Care and Skill I lose, And gain a mournful Subject for my Muse: His Masters lost, he’d oft in turn deplore, And kindly add,--‘Heaven grant, I lose no more!’ Yet while he spake, a sly and pleasant Glance Appear’d at variance with his Complaisance: For, as he told their Fate and varying Worth, He archly look’d,--‘I yet may bear thee forth.’ “When first”--(he so began)--“my Trade I ply’d, “Good Master _Addle_ was the Parish-Guide; “His Clerk and Sexton, I beheld with fear “His Stride majestic and his Frown severe; “A noble Pillar of the Church he stood, “Adorn’d with College-gown and Parish-hood; “Then, as he pac’d the hallow’d Aisles about, “He fill’d the sevenfold Surplice fairly out: “But in his Pulpit wearied down with Prayer, “He sat and seem’d as in his Study’s Chair; “For while the Anthem swell’d and when it ceas’d, “Th’ expecting People view’d their slumbering Priest;-- “Who dozing, died.---- Our Parson _Peele_ was next; “‘_I_ will not spare you,’ was his favourite Text: “Nor did he spare, but rais’d them many a Pound; “Ev’n me he mulct for my poor Rood of Ground; “Yet car’d he nought, but with a gibing Speech, “‘What should I do,’ quoth he, ‘but what _I_ preach?’ “His piercing Jokes (and he’d a plenteous store) “Were daily offer’d both to Rich and Poor; “His Scorn, his Love, in playful Words he spoke: “His Pity, Praise, and Promise, were a Joke: “But though so young and blest with spirits high, “He died as grave as any Judge could die: “The strong Attack subdu’d his lively Powers,-- “His was the Grave and Doctor _Grandspear_ ours.” “Then were there golden Times the Village round;