A POEM. 



3 ' 



These are health's tokens, may they long be ours, 

 Blest with content, no seeming want devours. 

 All seek at times their pleasures, none I find 

 My frame so braces, and unbends my mind, 

 As a long ramble with my gun and dogs 

 In the pure country, far from London fogs ; 

 Stupendous London, dearly still I love, 

 And, save for sporting, seldom from it rove : 

 If to its novice I one hint but give, 

 Which may as useful in the memory live, 

 I trust the critic will my verse forgive ; 

 Nor at my details let the practis'd sneer, 

 Should they so do, their jibes I shall not fear; 

 While each suggestion I take leave to mention, 

 Is plac'd on paper with the best intention ; 

 While my opinions to express I strive, 

 Reasons for such opinions also give, 

 Though little can be said, I fear, that 's new, 

 If any deign to con my pages through, 

 And a kind feeling the perusal 'tends, 

 J will half-promise we shall part good friends. 



