There was old daddy Slop, who has lost his last crop,
By neglecting to mend up some gaps in his fence;
There was shabby Ned Thorn, who had planted his corn,
But had never put hoe, no, nor plough to it since;
There was dashing Bill Sutton, with his fine dandy coat on,
Who was ne'er out of debt, nor was worth twenty dimes:
They too join'd the throng, and still kept up the song,
A curse on the Banks, and these dreadful hard times.
Next came in Dick Short, who was summon'd to court,
For some hundreds of half pints of whiskey and rum;
He had brought the last sack of his grain on his back;
Tho' his children were crying with hunger at home;
Here, landlord, said Short, come, bring me a quart;
I must treat these, my friends, Sir, and merry Jack Grimes;
I've the corn, sir, to pay, there's no booking to-day;
Then he fell to cursing the Banks, and hard times.
Next came in Tom Sargent who had lately turn'd merchant,
And bought a full store, I can scarcely tell how!
But this much I know, about twelve months ago,
That the Constable sold at the post, his last cow;
Yet Tom dash'd away, spending hundreds each day,
Till his merchants brought suits for their dry goods and wines;
So Tom join'd the throng, and assisted the song,
With a curse on these Banks, and these dreadful hard times.
Next appear'd Madam Pride, (and a beau at her side)
With her silks, spread with laces, quite down to her trail;
Her husband that day, unable to pay
For the dress she then wore, had been lock'd up in jail;
She turn'd to the throng, as she tripped it along,
And she "hop'd that the merchants would swing for such crimes
"As to make people pay their old debts, in this way;"
And she curs'd all the Banks, and these dreadful hard times.
Now said I, Mr. Short, you are summon'd to court,
And must soon go to jail for these long whiskey scores;
And you, Mr Drew, aye, and you sir, and you,
Who are hanging round taverns, and running to stores;
And you madam Pride, must your silks lay aside,
And you, Mr. Idle and you, Mr. Grimes,
Must all to your labours, like some of your neighbours,
And you'll soon put an end to these dreadful hard times.
[Gallia Gazette.
WINTER.
Though now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze
That lingers o'er the greenwood shade,
I love thee, Winter! well.
Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,
Sweet is the Summer's evening gale,
Pleasant the Autumnal winds that shake
The many coloured grove;