Beside a stream, that never yet ran dry, There stands a Town, not high advanced in fame; Tho’ few its buildings raised to please the eye, Still this proud title it may fairly claim;
A Tavern ( its first requisite ) is there, A mill, a black-smith's shop, a place of prayer. Nay, more — a little market-house is seen And iron hooks, where beef was never hung,
Nor pork, nor bacon, poultry fat or lean, Pig's head, or sausage link, or bullock's tongue: Look when you will, you see the vacant bench No butcher seated there, no country wench.
Great aims were his, who first contriv'd this town; A market he would have — but, humbled now, Sighing, we see its fabric mouldering down, That only serves, at night, to pen the cow:
And hence, by way of jest, it may be said That beef is there, tho’ never beef that's dead. Abreast the inn — a tree before the door, A Printing-Office lifts its humble head
Where busy Type old journals doth explore For news that is thro’ all the village read; Who, year from year, ( so cruel is his lot ) Is author, pressman, devil — and what not?
Fame says he is an odd and curious wight, Fond to distraction of this native place; In sense, not very dull nor very bright, Yet shews some marks of humour in his face,
One who can pen an anecdote, complete, Or plague the parson with the mackled sheet. Three times a week, by nimble geldings drawn A stage arrives; but scarcely deigns to stop,
Unless the driver, far in liquor gone, Has made some business for the black-smith-shop; Then comes this printer's harvest-time of news, Welcome alike from Christians, Turks, or Jews.
Each passenger he eyes with curious glance, And, if his phiz be mark'd of courteous kind, To conversation, straight, he makes advance, Hoping, from thence, some paragraph to find,
Some odd adventure, something new and rare, To set the town a-gape, and make it stare.
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