HISTORY OF STAFFORDSHIRE. 195 



fire on the ground where there was plenty of the herb kali, the 

 ashes of which mixing with sand, produced glass. Different vege- 

 tables and minerals make different sorts of glass, and of various 

 colours: the most valuable is a transparent red glass, which, some 

 writers assert, contains gold. Crystal glass has long been made 

 here ; but the art of cutting and engraving it, is a recent introduc- 

 tion. The glass trade has considerably increased of late years, 

 and is carried on with great spirit. A number of lofty and spacious 

 glass-houses have been erected between this place and Stourbridge; 

 and the vicinity contains many handsome houses and villas, belong- 

 ing to manufacturers, most of whom have acquired large fortunes. 



Brierly-hill Chapel, a neat small structure, was built hy subscrip- 

 tion, and finished in 1767, Kingswin/ord being the mother church : 

 it stands on the summit of a hill, and forms an interesting object iu 

 the distance. The Rev. Thomas Moss, A. B. was the first minister : 

 he was afterwards minister of Trentham, and domestic chaplain to 

 the Marquis of Stafford. This gentleman was author of the ce- 

 lebrated little piece, entitled " The Beggar/' which, in its origi- 

 nal state, and not as it has been given by Dr. Enfield, and copied 

 from him into other works, we here insert. The alterations * cer- 

 tainly take much from the force and beauty of the poem. 



PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, 

 Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, 



Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 

 Oh ! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store ! 



These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak ; 



These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years ; 

 And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek 



Has been the channel to a stream of tears. 



Yon house, erected on the rising ground, 



With tempting aspect drew me from my road j 

 For plenty there a residence has found, 



And grandeur a magnificent abode. 



Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! 



Here craving for a morsel of their bread, 

 A pamper'd menial forc'd me from the door, 



To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. 



Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome j 



Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ! 

 Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, 



For I am poor and miserably old. 



* See Gent. Mag. Vol. LXX. p. 41. 



