His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes;
And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake,
And only bled and perish'd for his sake.
Such are our peasants, those to whom we yield
270
Praise with relief, the fathers of the field;
And these who take, from our reluctant hands,
What Burn advises or the Bench commands.
Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain,
Like other farmers, flourish and complain.—