"Phoo! phoo! You're nothing near the thing! You only argy in a ring; 'Cause why? You never cares to look, Like me, in any larned book; But schollards know the wrong and right Of every thing in black and white. "Well, Farming, that's its common name, And Agriculture be the same: So put your Farming first, and next Distress, and there you have your text. But here the question comes to press, What farming be, and what's distress? Why, farming is to plough and sow, Weed, harrow, harvest, reap, and mow, Thrash, winnow, sell,--and buy and breed The proper stock to fat and feed. Distress is want, and pain, and grief, And sickness,--things as wants relief; Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe; In short, ax any overseer,-- Well, now, the logic for to chop, Where's the distress about a crop?" "There's no distress in keeping sheep, I likes to see 'em frisk and leap; There's no distress in seeing swine Grow up to pork and bacon fine; There's no distress in growing wheat And grass for men or beasts to eat; And making of lean cattle fat, There's no distress, of course, in that. Then what remains?--But one thing more, And that's the _Farming of the Poor_!" HODGE, DICKON, GILES, HOB, AND SIMON. "Yea!--aye!--sure_ly_!--for sartin!--yes!-- _That's_ Hagricultural Distress!" DOMESTIC POEMS. "It's hame, hame, hame."--A. CUNNINGHAM. "There's no place like home."--CLARI. I. HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS. O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife! When I look back at Hymen's dear day, Not a lovelier bride ever chang'd to a wife, Though you're now so old, wizen'd, and gray! Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate! But as liquid as stars in a pool; Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate, Just like gooseberries boil'd for a fool! That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair; Though it's wrinkled so crookedly now, As if time, when those furrows were made by the share, Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough! Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose, When a Venus demanded their skill; Though now it can hardly be reckon'd a nose, But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill! Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees, Such a nectar there hung on each lip; Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze, Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip! Your chin, it was one of Love's favorite haunts, From its dimple he could not get loose; Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants, Or a singe, like the breast of a goose! How rich were those locks, so abundant and full, With their ringlets of auburn so deep! Though now they look only like frizzles of wool, By a bramble torn off from a sheep! That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace, While in whiteness it vied with your arms; Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place, To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!