600 METHODIST POETS. 



Want stands as porter, and admits the poor 

 To useless labour * 



^J.> + '-*** ]y[y children mourn. 



And ask, wherefore the change ? Then flow my tears 



.*#*** 



Oh, ye who revel on the tide of time, 

 Sport with distress, think poverty a crime, 

 Whom fortune never crushed beneath her wheel, 

 Ye marble-hearted wretches ! learn to feel. 

 Say not, ye pamper'd sons of wealth and pride, 

 Contented be the poor till God provide ; 

 God has provided for the labouring poor, 

 But tax- fed idlers rob them of their store. 



Well done, Richard. Almost thou persuadest me to be a methodist. 

 But thou shalt be Laureate, Bishop of Conference, and rhyme better still 

 next time. Good luck to thee, and for thy sake, success to the town and 

 trade of Dore. 



The British nation, being not only a religious, but a thoughtful 

 people,,! have determined forthwith to write Corn Lam Hymns; for 

 before the end of ten years from the 19th day of November, 1832, even 

 our methodist parsons will be fain jto preach ADAM SMITH, in all their 

 pulpits. Scotch Chalmers, the calvinist, has already preached him, but 

 without understanding the text, Wheelwright James Wats ! have we 

 not cause to be -thankful for at least two of the countrymen of Burns, 

 the exciseman ? One of them try a single thought, changed the face of 

 the earth, and reversed the destiny of ages ; the other begat the minds of 

 such writers as Harriet Martineux. Richard Furness has much to 

 unlearn, and more to know, before he can become what he will yet be ; 

 in the meantime, if he incline to prose, I suggest three subjects for his 

 pen ; " The History of a British Ship of War ;" " Colonial Annals, or 

 Sir Sancho Grub, in his Island ;" and " Parlour Law, or Half a Page, 

 from the History of the Great Unpaid, in ten thousand volumes, folio. 



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'to Tf-qfj i 



.JrcsT^ 

 MY PRETTY KATE. 







My pretty Kate I do not know 

 The reason why I love you so 

 Devotedly ; but when a day 

 Without thy presence drags away, 

 I feel as though a year had flown, 

 And I the while been left alone. 



Yet when a day I spend with thee, 

 It scarcely seems an hour to me ; 

 Yet tho' no suicide am I, 

 Nor very anxious am to die ; 

 My soul unmoved the hope surveys, 

 That Kate may shorten all my days. 



Uimffloo'^odi 



>*9mJfh: 



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