Our village, that’s to say not Miss Mitford’s village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle, there’s a green of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It’s common to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drown’d kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green’s cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There’s fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds; With plenty of public-houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King’s Heads. The Green Man is reckon’d the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackled “neat post-chaise.” There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, little Methodist chapel of Ease; And close by the church-yard, there’s a stone-mason’s yard, that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very low and reasonable. There’s a cage, comfortable enough; I’ve been in it with Old Jack Jeffrey and Tom Pike; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or any thing else you like. I can’t speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post; But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob’s horse, as is always there almost. There’s a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. There’s a shop of all sorts, that sells every thing, kept by the widow of Mr. Task; But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of every thing you ask. You’ll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask. There are six empty houses, and not so well paper’d inside as out, For bill-stickers won’t beware, but sticks notices of sales and election placards all about. That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in the windows is seen; A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea-plant with five black leaves and one green.