Classic Poem

In days, my Lord, when mother Time,
Though now grown old, was in her prime,
When Saturn first began to rule,
And Jove was hardly come from school,
How happy was a country life!
How free from wickedness and strife!
Then each man lived upon his farm,
And thought and did no mortal harm;
On mossy banks fair virgins slept,
As harmless as the flocks they kept;
Then love was all they had to do,
And nymphs were chaste, and swains were true.
But now, whatever poets write,
I'm sure the case is altered quite:
Virtue no more in rural plains,
Or innocence, or peace remains;
But vice is in the cottage found,
And country girls are oft unsound;
Fierce party rage each village fires,
With wars of justices and squires;
Attorneys, for a barley straw,
Whole ages hamper folks in law,
And ev'ry neighbour's in a flame
About their rates, or tithes, or game:
Some quarrel for their hares and pigeons,
And some for diff'rence in religions:
Some hold their parson the best preacher,
The tinker some a better teacher;
These to the Church they fight for strangers,
Have faith in nothing but her dangers;
While those, a more believing people,
Can swallow all things—but a steeple.
But I, my Lord, who, as you know,
Care little how these matters go,
And equally detest the strife
And usual joys of country life,
Have by good fortune little share
Of its diversions, or its care;
For seldom I with squires unite,
Who hunt all day and drink all night;
Nor reckon wonderful inviting
A quarter-sessions, or cock-fighting:
But then no farm I occupy
With sheep to rot, and cows to die;
Nor rage I much, or much despair,
Though in my hedge I find a snare;
Nor view I, with due admiration,
All the high honours here in fashion;
The great commissions of the quorum,
Terrors to all who come before 'em;
Militia scarlet edged with gold,
Or the white staff high sheriffs hold;
The representative's caressing,
The judge's bow, the bishop's blessing;
Nor can I feel my soul delight
In the dull feast of neighb'ring knight,
Who, if you send three days before,
In white gloves meets you at the door,
With superfluity of breeding
First makes you sick, and then with feeding:
Or if with ceremony cloyed,
You would next time such plagues avoid,
And visit without previous notice,
‘John, John, a coach!—I can't think who 'tis,’
My lady cries, who spies your coach,
Ere you the avenue approach:
‘Lord, how unlucky!—washing day!
And all the men are in the hay!’
Entrance to gain is something hard,
The dogs all bark, the gates are barred;
The yard's with lines of linen crossed,
The hall door's locked, the key is lost:
These difficulties are all o'ercome,
We reach at length the drawing-room;
Then there's such trampling overhead,
Madam you'd swear was brought to bed;
Miss in a hurry bursts her lock,
To get clean sleeves to hide her smock;
The sevants run, the pewter clatters,
My lady dresses, calls and chatters;
The cook-maid raves for want of butter,
Pigs squeak, fowls scream, and green geese flutter.
Now after three hours tedious waiting,
On all our neighbours' faults debating,
And having nine times viewed the garden,
In which there's nothing worth a farthing,
In comes my lady, and the pudden:
‘You will excuse, sir,—on a sudden’—
Then, that we may have four and four,
The bacon, fowls, and cauliflow'r
Their ancient unity divide,
The top one graces, one each side;
And by and by, the second course
Comes lagging like a distanced horse;
A salver then to church and king;
The butler sweats, the glasses ring;
The cloth removed, the toasts go round,
Bawdy and politics abound;
And as the knight more tipsy waxes,
We damn all ministers and taxes.
At last the ruddy sun quite sunk,
The coachman tolerably drunk,
Whirling o'er hillocks, ruts, and stones,
Enough to dislocate one's bones,
We home return, a wondrous token
Of Heaven's kind care, with limbs unbroken.