A LETTER
TO A GENTLEMAN FARMER,
Requesting a favour.
Sir, just at a venture this freedom I took,
And here, as it is, is a letter;
Excuse its design, its defects overlook,
For the truth is, I could not do better.
I will not address you in flatt’ry’s fine strain,
Which is at the best a mere bubble;
But simply, and shortly, will try to explain
The cause why I give you this trouble.
Being born in this place, and brought up in my youth,
By parents not rich, but respected,
For honesty, industry, kindness, and truth,
On whom some esteem was reflected.
For whose sakes, this neighbourhood, not then estrang’d,
Would have helped me, one or another;
But now, one excepted, the tenants are chang’d,
Who e’er knew my father or mother.
Another, of late, to his farm bade farewell,
On whom was the half of my leaning;
And one over-burden’d will naturally fail—
So now you may guess at my meaning.
A favour from you this is sent to obtain,
And for leave too, to beg a renewal;
Please grant me, at this time, and sometimes again,
A cart to bring sticks home for fuel.
No claim I can urge to your kindness at all,
Necessity made me invent this;
And to Mrs ——’s tho’ my claim is but small,
Yet her I request to present this.
And should she, sweet pleader, but give me her vote,
These lines will, at least, not offend you;
The favour I ask, be it granted or not,
I wish, Sir, that good may attend you.
On laying an old Petticoat beside a good one, which were both cut from the same piece of cloth.
Do not thy sister poor despise,
Though now in such a plight;
Though she in rags beside thee lies,
Don’t her condition slight.
I’d have thee better manners taught,
Than such vain pride to shew;
’Twas her misfortune, not her fault,
That brought thy sister low.
No diff’rence once you two between,
A nice eye could have made;
But she has oft’ in hardships been,
Which made her sooner fade.
In useful service she has spent,
Her beauty, strength, and prime;
Thou may’st be tarnish’d, burnt, or rent,
At some unlucky time.
No one though prosperous to-day,
Can tell to-morrow’s lot;
This thought must not be thrown away,
Though spoke to a petticoat.
No, let me profit by the same,
And make the advice my own,
To bear in mind how frail I am,
Nor be to censure prone.
Should error, change, decay, be proud,
Right reason answers, No—
And man to these (howe’er endow’d)
Is liable while below.
Humility becomes us all,
Though seldom rightly learn’d:
We should not boast when others fall,
But pity, and be warn’d.