The Village and The Newspaper

by George Crabbe

And other shepherds dwell with other mates;

By such examples taught, I paint the Cot,

As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not:

Nor you, ye Poor, of letter’d scorn complain,

To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain;

O’ercome by labour, and bow’d down by time,

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?

Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,

By winding myrtles round your ruin’d shed?

Can their light tales your weighty griefs o’erpower,