Poems on several subjects

If fate's a goddess, as some think she is,
I'm made to wonder; and my wonder's this,
Why she unequal deals her gifts, and why,
What she once gave, she takes from some away?
Why she bestows her wealth and pow'r to some,
That, by extraction, from the dunghill come;
While some that are of noble birth and breeding,
Are turned poor, nay slaves their wants deriding?
But some men say, this goddess she is blind,
And deals at rovers to all human kind.
Howe'er it is, I know not; yet I know
Some are advanc'd, while others are brought low.
Some men have pow'r, yet want the skill to guide it;
And some have wit, and yet oblig'd to hide it.
Some men are rich, and others wretched poor;
And some are chaste, while others play the whore.
Some are religious, others are profane;
And some have loss, while other some have gain.
Some men are patient under th'greatest cross;
And some are grieved at the smallest loss.
Some men are false, some love to keep their words;
And some are valiant, other some are cowards.
Some men are born to ease and much content;
And some to sorrow, grief and discontent.
Some men oppress, while others are oppress'd;
Some have hard labour, other some have rest.
Some men have sickness, other some have health;
Some penury, and some abound in wealth.

Some bountiful, and others churlish are;
And some are catch'd, while some escape the snare.
Some merry make, while other some are sad;
And some are good, while other some are bad.
Some are shamefac'd, and others impudent;
And some are harden'd, other some repent.
Some loyal subjects, others rebels prove;
And some men hate what others greatly love.
Some are ambitious, some their honour flies;
And some accept, while others gifts despise.
Some men are virtuous, others drown'd in vice;
And some are sluttish, other some are nice.
So many men, so many dispositions;
So many stations, so is their conditions.
The covetous, when pow'r is on their side,
Are great oppressors, tyrants full of pride;
And mainly those that are of mean extraction,
When they get wealth, it fills them with distraction.

There's farmer Hob from small beginnings rose;
But some alledge the fellow found a pose;
Or stoll'n or robb'd, or murder'd some for gold;
And twenty stories 'bout his wealth are told.
Yet there's no man dares to attest the crime;
And few, or none, know how it is in time.
As he grows rich, he covets still the more;
And to his utmost persecutes the poor.
Around him, he with covetous design,
His thriving neighbours strives to undermine.
He views their seats, runs to the landlord syne;
Invites him frankly to a treat of wine,
Some bottles empty, he proposeth next,
Before his sermon, to give out his text.
Sir, I'm inform'd some of your tenants are
Behind the hand, and in your books too far;
And if they fail in payment, Sir, to you,
They cannot have sufficient beasts to plow.
This dyvers both your honour's land, and them,
And you have none, Sir, but yourself to blame.

Let me but have, Sir, such and such possessions,
I'll try my hand to make some more progressions:
With stronger oxen plow up their reversions.
Here's gold at will, Sir, for your present use,
For I can spare it till the ground produce
Her yearly payments by the bullock's toil,
Which fails not, when well plow'd in fatted soil.
Some golden pieces gratis he lets fly,
And then the landlord makes a kind reply;
Since you are wealthy, frank, and so discreet,
Come, let's strike hands, the bargain is complete.
The good old tenants are kick'd out of doors,
And turn'd to begg'ry by such sons of whores.

Next, there's Alexis, an expectant heir,
With pockets scrimpt, yet brisk and debonair;
His daily prayer is, That's obstructers may
By death be soon and shortly swept away.
Indulgent Heav'n his earnest wishes grants,
He swears, and swaggers, drinks, and whores and rants;
Exhausts his substance, domineering still
O'er his poor tenants, subject to his will;
By Fortune flatter'd, basely turns uncivil;
His subjects dread, he's an incarnate devil.
With harrage, carriage, them he still molests;
And with extravagance his 'state he wastes.
Light come, thinks he, then lightly let it go;
If I be serv'd, I value't not a straw.
When all's near spent, his pocket empty grown,
'Tis ready cash and credit almost flown,
'Tis cruel mind with tyranny and pride,
Runs on oppression, penury to hide;
Sends for his tenants, man by man, and swears,
Their tenements too great a product bears;
You must pay entries ev'ry one, or flit;
And more by year; now chuse what ye think fit.
Then, in this strait, the simple tenants try;
Thus they are both reduc'd to poverty.

This breaks all those his tenants that succeed,
And his poor heirs must labour for their bread.

There's upstart burghers, pedlars-once, now grown
Admir'd in country, have the vogue in town;
They look a-squint upon the auld goodman,
That once were fain to lick his pottage-pan.
These cunning callands they corrupt the rest,
With crafty counsel, bent for interest.
Commodities that's from the country brought,
They, with one bod, buy up almost for nought:
And what they sell, their tongues are one again;
Thus they make rich, beguiling countrymen,
Tho' on their souls they bring a guilty stain.

There's Mr John probationer devout,
With his black sleeves, and military coat;
Well-vers'd in logic and philosophy,
Fraught with harangues, and blads of orat'ry,
But most a stranger to divinity;
Yet seeming grave, before the clergy stoops;
But, when alone, he sings and takes his cups:
Yet he can pray, and tell long scrifts of Greek,
And broken smatters of the Hebrew speak;
And in the Latin he is nicely read;
Can scrape and jouk; then is not he well bred?
Having profess'd community and faith,
By deed of synod, he a licence hath
To preach and pray in public auditory;
Tho' ostentation, heart-pride, and vain-glory,
Should be his motives, next to gaining bread,
He turns Boanerges, shaking hands and head.
Some benefice falls vacant; he essays
Oft in that place to spread his gospel-rays.
Fain would he be the pastor if he might;
The stipend fainer by a legal right.
The people not unanimous to chuse him,
The greatest part enirely do refuse him.
He gains the patron; gets a presentation;
And this fills some with greater indignation;

Yet this installs him pastor of the parish;
A great deal more the fleece than flock to cherish.
He thus ordain'd, and settled in's possession,
His mind runs on another alteration,
A finer house, a well-dung'd glebe and garden;
But on his studies he is not so arden:
With long harangues, tautologies and nonsense,
He lulls asleep his silly hearers' conscience.
A fine rich wife, and gallant horse to ride;
A lazy chair near by his chimney-side:
Hath various dishes on his table set;
Drink and tobacco heaves him up with fat,
More like a swine well-fatted for the knife,
Than watchful pastor in a Christian life.
I leave their end and fate to him that knows;
But this prognostic no good ending shows.

These are but swatches of the great oppression,
And impositions that o'erspread the nation.
Oppression is a god, that's, at this day,
Ador'd by all, whose nod all ranks obey.
The golden age and silver age are gone;
And brass and iron; now is the age of stone.
Among the great, where noble blood inspires,
To imitate the virtues of their sires,
They dare not out them for a perverse crew;
That's most in vogue, experience can shew.
If priests or poets should their thoughts unfold,
They are corrupted with rewards of gold,
Or charg'd and persecute their place to hold.
But flatt'ry, gains, or praise, altho' misplac'd,
True honesty, and truth are both defac'd.
But if a scribler, as they call them, say,
The stoney age is extant at this day,
He's persecuted, scorn'd, reproach'd by all;
Such poor rewards to tell-truths now befall.

University of Virginia Library

The honest Country-man's Meditation, as he was humming it over alone in Words at Resting-time.