Lo, here comes farmer Nimrod, on his grey!
Eager his victim's well-earn'd hate to brave,
And proud to be a tyrant and a slave,
He damns his feeders twenty times a day:
" What right to think of his concerns have they? "
Well can he bear the trader's land-made cares:
" Happy the poor, " quoth he; " for thrive who may,
A comfortable Workhouse still is theirs. "
Yet swaps he not his happiness for ours!
But in the page that lauds his right to wrong,
Reads weekly, That Trade's gains to him belong;
For what the country grows, the town devours!
" He needs nor towns, nor trade! but traders eat;
And they must pay his price! or he will grow no wheat. "