The dreadful call of macer, like a horn,
The agent, tottering from some humble shed,
The lawyer’s claron, like the cock’s, at morn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the agent’s lamp shall burn,
Or busy clerk oft’ ply his evening care,
No counsel run to hail their quick return,
Or long their client’s envied fees to share.
Oft’ did the harvest to their wishes yield,
And knotty points their stubborn souls oft’ broke.