METHODIST POETS. 597 



" Then had I gather'd rags for miles around, 

 From village, halls, and cots, where rags abound ; 

 Old wigs, flint bottles, horse-hair, scraps of brass, 

 Hare-skins, dry bones, old iron, and broken glass ; 

 And toiling homeward, near dark Derwent's stream, 

 My weary wandering by the moon's pale beam, 

 Surprised, like Balaam, in the narrow pass, 

 At once stood still my baggage and my ass ; 

 Nor would he journey on, nor move aside, 

 Though my stiff weapon bruised his surly hide ; 

 When, in an instant, from my flaxen poke, 

 Discordant voices in loud murmurs broke. 



_ Jk,.' Fly, slaves!' cried one, amid the battle's smoke, 

 A Clasp, that once' embraced Lord Lumber's cloak ; 

 ' Look through the gallery in yon marble hall, 

 There yet my fathers live along the wall ; 

 And, as estates descend from sire to son, 

 Doubtless my father's wisdom is my own/ 



nf 'To whom replied, I judged, a coarse old Rag, 

 The remnant of a labourer's dinner-bag :- 

 * My soul indignant rises at your name, 

 And controverts the greatness of your claim ; 

 While the brave whittle, dangling by your side, 

 The gay appendage of your feudal pride, 

 Rusts in the scabbard See ! the peasant blythe 

 Sweeps down whole fields with his broad-sword, the scythe ; 

 Leads harvest captive to his stores for food, 

 And, while he conquers famine, sheds no blood." 



Then spoke a Flounce, torn from a lady's gown, 

 Some prude's coquette's, or woman's of the town : 

 ' Know, I had titles, beauty, rank, and fame, 

 And riches shed a halo round my name ; 

 Respect my rank ; avaunt ! ye servile crew, 

 More manners learn, and keep your distance do/ 



But Dame Gray's pocket, rising in a huff, 

 Discharg'd her box, and fell'd the Flounce with snuff; 

 And while the vanquish' d lay among the slain, 

 She thus address'd her in a serious strain : 

 ' Madam, forbear! what, though of rank you boast? 

 Though in your shadow little folks are lost ? 

 The distaff to your sceptre shall not bow ; 

 ' I'm in the rag-bag, madam, so are you/ 



Two mailed foes now met in tilting shocks 

 A metal tea-pot, and tobacco-box : 

 Snap went the box, and bit the tea-pot's spout ; 

 Hot hiss'd the pot, and spouted venom out ; 

 To smoke or steam, each rais'd its mouth or nose, 

 Tjll words succeeded scientific blows ; 

 When thus the tea-pot : ' Filthy magazine ! 

 Close thy black vent, arid hold thy poison in. 

 With thee, the sot burns competence away, 

 And sucks his ruin through a stick of clay. 

 Ah, long posterity shall curse the hand 

 That brought tobacco to this vicious land/ 



(fted Jbris eli - inra jfosd lo 



On this the box, impatient for the fray, 

 Threw up his lid, and stood in firm array ; 



