Here once a year Distinction low'rs its crest, The master, servant, and the merry guest, Are equal all; and round the happy ring The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling, And, warm'd with gratitude, he quits his place, With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face, Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend, To serve at once the master and the friend; Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, His nuts, his conversation, and his ale. Such were the days, ... of days long past I sing, When Pride gave place to mirth without a sting; Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore To violate the feelings of the poor; To leave them distanc'd in the mad'ning race, Where'er Refinement shews its hated face: Nor causeless hated;... 'tis the peasant's curse, That hourly makes his wretched station worse; Destroys life's intercourse; the social plan That rank to rank cements, as man to man: Wealth flows around him, fashion lordly reigns; Yet poverty is his, and mental pains. Methinks I hear the mourner thus impart The stifled murmurs of his wounded heart: 'Whence comes this change, ungracious, irksome, cold? 'Whence the new grandeur that mine eyes behold? 'The wid'ning distance which I daily see, 'Has Wealth done this?... then wealth's a foe to me; 'Foe to our rights; that leaves a pow'rful few 'The paths of emulation to pursue:... 'For emulation stoops to us no more: 'The hope of humble industry is o'er; 'The blameless hope, the cheering sweet presage 'Of future comforts for declining age. 'Can my sons share from this paternal hand 'The profits with the labours of the land? 'No; tho' indulgent Heaven its blessing deigns, 'Where's the small farm to suit my scanty means? 'Content, the Poet sings, with us resides; 'In lonely cots like mine the damsel hides; 'And will he then in raptur'd visions tell 'That sweet Content with Want can ever dwell? 'A barley loaf, 'tis true, my table crowns, 'That fast diminishing in lusty rounds, 'Stops Nature's cravings; yet her sighs will flow 'From knowing this,... that once it was not so. 'Our annual feast, when Earth her plenty yields, 'When crown'd with boughs the last load quits the fields, 'The aspect still of ancient joy puts on; 'The aspect only, with the substance gone: 'The self-same Horn is still at our command, 'But serves none now but the plebeian hand: 'For _home-brew'd Ale_, neglected and debas'd, 'Is quite discarded from the realms of taste. 'Where unaffected Freedom charm'd the soul, 'The separate table and the costly bowl, 'Cool as the blast that checks the budding Spring, 'A mockery of gladness round them fling. 'For oft the Farmer, ere his heart approves, 'Yields up the custom which he dearly loves: 'Refinement forces on him like a tide; 'Bold innovations down its current ride, 'That bear no peace beneath their shewy dress, 'Nor add one tittle to his happiness. 'His guests selected; rank's punctilios known; 'What trouble waits upon a casual frown! 'Restraint's foul manacles his pleasures maim;