University of Virginia Library

“To Thee, the giver of all good, We offer up our gratitude,
For all the blessings that we share From thy benign, paternal care;
And while our thanks we thus employ
For blessings which we now enjoy,
The crying wants of those supply, Who bend beneath adversity:
Relieve them from thy plenteous store,
That they like us may want no more.
As Ravens from thy hand are fed, O give us all our Daily Bread!
And in what state soe'er we move, That all our doings may improve
Assist us, Gracious Power, and we
Shall learn thy laws—and live to Thee!”
—A chorus of Amens succeed, Which gave the sign from word to deed.
The Doctor now resum'd his seat,
And smiling view'd the piles of meat;
When hasty hunger seem'd to wait Round ev'ry dish, on ev'ry plate:
E'en sixty mouths were soon seen wagging,
And not a single jaw-bone lagging.
Ere a short hour was gone and past, This mighty meal had seen its last,
While many an empty dish display'd
The change by hungry labour made.
The brimming cups now took their round,
When jests and merry tales abound:
And social fun and many a joke Bend with the pipe's ascending smoke.
The toasts are given, and jovial song
Does the gay, festive hour prolong.
Then to the garden turf they sped;—
The moon shone brightly over head,
And many a maid and many a swain
Tripp'd nimbly on the shaven plain;
Nor was their merry-making done 'Till Luna yielded to the Sun.
But just as Phœbus 'gan to peep From his night's lodging in the deep,
The farmer thus his friends address'd:
“I give, ere we depart to rest, The health of our kind, rev'rend guest,
With hearty thanks that he should come
To grace our humble Harvest Home.
The toast which I with pleasure give,
You will, with gen'ral joy receive;
Then join the heart-felt wish with me;
So here's his health—with three times three!”
The Doctor felt an honest pride,
Then wav'd his hand and thus replied:—
“Think not because I preach on Sundays,
I may not aid your joy on Mondays!
Think not I fear dread Heav'n's displeasure,
Because I guide your festive measure,
Or that I thus your feast prolong With social mirth or lively song;
These doth indulgent Heaven dispense To labour and to innocence.
—Continue worthy to receive The bounties Heaven is pleas'd to give;
The blossoms of the fragrant Spring, The Summer, when the valleys sing
With yellow harvest, and demand The sickle in the reaper's hand:
The Autumn, when the fruitage glows,
Bending to earth the laden boughs;
And when the barn in Winter pours,
To pay your toil, its hoarded stores:
For these your hearts and voices raise
In humble prayer and grateful praise;—
And, in your various stations move With virtue, harmony and love.
Your duty crown with cheerful labour,
And upright dealings with your neighbour.
What conscience tells must not be done,
That is the deed which you must shun;
What conscience tells that you should do,
That is the way you must pursue;
And acting thus, you will possess The surest means of happiness.
With patience bear the ills that wait On mortal man, whate'er his state,
In lowly cot, or rich or great:
And when fair fortune beams its ray, Grateful enjoy the prosp'rous day;
Whether 'tis sunshine or the storm, To your known duties still conform.
Practise these lessons of a friend; Then comfort will your lives attend,
And peace will bless your latter end.”
Thus did the sage his counsels close,
Then sought his pillow's calm repose.
The Muse may have forgot the hour
When Morpheus yielded up his power,
And Syntax from his slumbers broke, As if 'twere said—when he awoke:
And surely 'tis enough to say, He found his spirits light and gay;
When, in their full and lively flow, He join'd the worthy folk below;
Nor was the Don displeas'd to see The morning's hospitality;
And to improve the plenteous fare The welcome smile abounded there.
—To all the Doctor's friends 'tis known,
And he himself will frankly own,
That whether good or ill o'ertakes him,
An active stomach ne'er forsakes him;
And he did such a breakfast make On new bak'd loaf and oven-cake,
That they all look'd with wond'ring eye,
At his gaunt mouth's artillery.
—The Honest Farmer, such was known
His name and all his life to crown,
For 'twas in gen'ral use become To call Tom Truman Honest Tom,
Now hop'd his rev'rend guest would stay
And glad his house another day, For still it would be holiday:
But Syntax said he must be gone, And begg'd the favour to be shown
To Crotchet Lodge, the nearest way, As there his promis'd errand lay.
“O,” said the farmer, “from my grounds
You may see clear the wood that bounds
The place where Madam doth reside, 'Tis not a hasty hour's ride;
Within that time, I'm sure your mare,
With all her fat, will take you there.”
—A smile now play'd on Truman's face,
On which the sage thought he could trace
A certain inward, secret feeling, That his good host aim'd at concealing;
Which, could he urge him to declare,
Might give him hints that would prepare
His mind with caution due to greet Whate'er reception he should meet.
“Tell me,” he said, “friend, what you know
Of this same place where I'm to go;
As it may be of use to me, To hear what I perchance may see:
You will oblige me to explain
What whimsies haunt Miss Crotchet's brain,
As ladies who thus live alone Are sometimes to odd habits prone,
And more so when old maidens grown:
As 'gainst her droll'ries, should she show them,
I can protect me, did I know them;
Nor can you fear I should betray What to my ear you may convey.”
But while the farmer seem'd to doubt If he should let the matter out;
The mistress of the mansion said, “Why, Thomas, need you be afraid?
She's music-mad, the country knows it,
And ev'ry day her fancy shows it.
Where is a lady ever seen To play upon a violin?
And more than half her time is spent In scraping on that instrument;
And we have heard, when thus engag'd, She looks a bedlamite enrag'd.
Sometimes she smiles and then will frown,
Casts her eyes up and then looks down,
Is known to swear as well as sigh, And scream aloud in extasy;
Nay, she is even said to swoon, When German Peg plays out of tune:
For while she works her fara-diddle,
The old girl strums a monstrous fiddle,
Of such a size, our Clerk can prove,
That asks a strong man's strength to move;
He as a workman did attend it,
And once was call'd in haste to mend it:
He says its belly would contain More than will fill a sack with grain.
—Nor is this all, no not by half, And oft her whimsies make me laugh
When any of the straggling poor, Relief to ask approach her door,
She does not question their distress,
Or how their wants she may redress,
But for an instant song will call, And if they sing, whate'er they squall,
They're usher'd to the servants'-hall,
And 'mid the men and maids and boys,
She laughs and listens to their noise;
And those who chaunt a pleasant ballad,
Will to their roast meat get a sallad:
But if they cannot sing or play, They penniless are sent away.
Such are her whims, and many more The country rumours have in store.
But when her music quits its tether,
Which sometimes haps for days together,
She then like other folks is seen In quiet chat with easy mien.
While thus postpon'd her music's labours
She hospitably treats her neighbours;
And then, perhaps, as you may see, Madam is no more mad than me.”