Tho’ err he did, he finish’d the debate,
With his own blood, and Radclyffe’s fair estate.
The aged farmer, tott’ring o’er the green,
Leans on his staff, recounts the days he’s seen:
Informs the list’ning youth by his record,
How bless’d his roof, how plenteous was his board;
Nor rack’d by Derwent’s hospitable lord.
He stops his tale, involv’d in grief profound;
He sighs, he weeps, and feebly strikes the ground;
Cries, why rehearse these golden days of yore,