I hope he will make fertile Norfolk his home; He would find us all loyal tho’ he saw us distress’d, He would not leave Norfolk without being caress’d. We would give him roast beef and Southwold best salt, For reducing the duty at present on malt: But if in our country he’d wish to be merry, I hope he wont bring with him lord London---; Each shepherd should play on his pastoral croke, We would place beside him a very good Coke; Who really deserves with such guests to sit down, He’s a friend to the farmer and friend to the crown. Truly loyal he’s been, it’s known from his youth, For he to his Sovereign speaks noting but truth. Most boldly expose corruptions foul crimes, And he dares be honest in the worst of our times; And when he’s in Norfolk, I hope he will call, To visit lord Albermarle at Quidenham Hall. His lordship to others can pleasure impart, It’s well known when e’er he an argument start, He begins it with freedom and ends it with ease; For whit and good sense when united must please. All meet him with pleasure and reluctant retire, For his elegant language most people admire. What adds to the pleasure or joys of the day, He always endeavour to pass it away In a manner that constant improvement is found, For his argument’s just—and his reason is sound. My judgment at times is put to the test, To form an opinion which of them is best, His head or his heart—yet I’ve understood, Those who know him declare they are both of them good. His conduct, thro’ life, this assertion makes true— His country’s welfare he keeps full in view. Tho’ surrounded by those that are foes to the State, Undaunted and fearless he dares to relate, Whatever he views to promote a REFORM; I hope he’ll be able to weather the storm. He is fit for a pilot, old England to steer, When troubles annoy us or danger is near; By prudence directed a vessel is found To arrive at her port without getting aground. As matters are managed we founder or sink, Unless the times alter, most people now think. If a farmer can’t live, can a tradesman do well? Ask those in our city if goods they do sell, At a price they obtained only three years ago, If you ask them the question they’ll answer you no. They stand in their shops with their hands at their back, Which plainly foretel you their orders are slack; Whereas, often follows, that slackness I say, And the creditors find very little to pay. They envied the farmers fine horses and gigs, And used for to say they were running fine rigs. A shopkeeper often long credit could gain, And when things were brisk did a profit obtain; Now corn selleth low, he dispose at prime cost; Or what is still worse, a large sum is lost On his stock—for the farmer no orders can give; When that is the case the tradesman can’t live. If you go to a draper and ten pounds him pay,