Wise was your plan when twenty years ago From Patrick's isle you first resolved to stray, Where lords and knights, as thick as rushes grow, And vulgar folks are in each other's way;
Where mother-country acts the step-dame's part, Cuts off, by aid of hemp, each petty sinner, And twice or thrice in every score of years Hatches sad wars to make her brood the thinner.
How few aspire to quit the ungrateful soil That starves the plant it had the strength to bear: How many stay, to grieve, and fret, and toil, And view the plenty that they must not share.
This you beheld, and westward set your nose, Like some bold prow, that ploughs the Atlantic foam, And left less venturous weights, like famished crows,— To feed on hog-peas, hips, and haws, at home.
Safe landed here, not long the coast detained Your wary steps:— but wandering on, you found Far in the west, a paltry spot of land, That no man envied, and that no man owned.
A woody hill, beside a dismal bog — This was your choice; nor were you much to blame: And here, responsive to the croaking frog, You grubbed, and stubbed, and feared no landlord's claim.
An axe, an adze, a hammer, and a saw; These were the tools, that built your humble shed: A cock, a hen, a mastiff, and a cow: These were your subjects, to this desert led.
Now times are changed — and labour's nervous hand Bids harvests rise where briars and bushes grew; The dismal bog, by lengthy sluices drained, Supports no more hoarse captain Bull Frog's crew.—
Prosper your toil!— but, friend, had you remained In lands, where starred and gartered nobles shine, When you had, thus, to sixty years attained, What different fate,‘ Squire Crispin, had been thine!
Nine pence a day, coarse fare, a bed of boards, The midnight loom, high rents, and excised beer; Slave to dull squires, kings’ brats, and huffish lords, ( Thanks be to Heaven ) not yet in fashion here!
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