Poems By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes |
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II. |
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III. |
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TO THE VICAR OF MANACCAN'S NUMEROUS PIGEONS,
JUST AS THE AUTHOR WAS PREPARING TO SHOOT THEM. |
Poems | ||
269
TO THE VICAR OF MANACCAN'S NUMEROUS PIGEONS, JUST AS THE AUTHOR WAS PREPARING TO SHOOT THEM.
Poor Pigeons! by your quondam vicar priz'd,Tho' now condemn'd to fall, an easy mark
To piece that's cock'd at random in the dark;
Ye, to whose bursting crops is sacrific'd
The glebe's fat produce; whether coney-park
Or way-field, o'er whose waving grain the lark
Chaunts his shrill orisons, the corn supply—
Sweets birds! how ye salute the passer by,
Dropping your oily burthens on his head!
Alas! I cannot court you at my ease—
Tho' softly billing, ye are full of fleas!
Ah! ye may mourn, indeed, your patron dead—
For lo! among you a most barbarous vicar
Who cannot breathe till he has pull'd the trigger!
Poems | ||