It hap’d a gentle youth—a lordly heir
To vast domains—did annually repair
Unto this country-mansion, to renew
His pleasant visits to his uncle Prew:
The fair-hair’d stripling proved a welcome guest,
For there was something in his generous breast
Which won for him the universal mark
(From Bishop Butler,[164] to the parish-clerk,)
Of friendship—nay, the love of one and all:
The village-matrons, all were wont to call
Him “the young Squire;” and as he pass’d their way
They’d call their daughters from the washing-tray,
Or spinning-wheel, or the old-fashion’d loom,
Or in the midst of scrubbing out a room,
Or at the pigs’ sty—where they were intent
Upon the beast,[165] which paid the yearly rent:
And forth they’d come—some with their naked arms;
Some with their “wee-uns;” some much skill’d in charms,—
For in most hamlets superstition reigns—
Where there is one at least, who sundry pains
Profess to cure by praying to the gods
With speechless lips, quaint motions, and queer nods;
And some again, who’d done their household needs,
Prim dress’d,—perchance a widow in her weeds,
Who’d lost her dear-one by the hand of death;
And others hastening, almost lacking breath.
Some lazy tailors in a kitchen-shop,
Fond of a sight, from out the window’d pop
Their uncomb’d heads of most peculiar shape,
With beards as bristly as the hog, or ape;
Who for a shilling, breakfast, dinner, tea,
And aught beside, go forth and work the day
At some farmhouse (or at the village priest’s),
Re-seating breeches, patching coats or vests.
And then the village cobbler drops his tool,
Throws down his spectacles, lifts from his stool
His grizzled visage; not o’er fond of trade,
(Who often vows he wish’d the pick and spade
Had been his implements of industry,
Instead of hemp and wax machinery,)
He’s not at all partic’lar what abuse
Accrues for keeping sons’ or daughters’ shoes
Much longer than he ought—he care? not he!—
He’s well inured to such-like trickery:
Come what there will, if there’s the slightest chance,
(Be ’t funeral-weeping, or a wedding-dance,)
The faintest prospect—either facts or fibs—
Where there is hopes of friendship with some ribs
Of beef sirloin, or rump, no matter which—
“The devil take the awl,”—not one more stitch
Will there be done that day; on goes his best,
(Whate’er he’s got) and revels with the rest.
The blacksmith, also, at the village forge,
(His handy-workman, or his own son George,)
Is not unlike the cobbler or the “snip,”
Just let him hear the cracking of a whip,
With rather more than usual dexterous hand,
He drops the sledge, and quickly makes a stand;
First gazes on the rider, then the horse,
The vehicle, if any; and, of course,
Pulls half-way o’er his nose his old greas’d peak,[166]
(Tho’ rough in manners, modest in his keep,)
Views well the fetlocks, and the horse’s parts;
His vete’nary skill in words imparts,—
Consults his own, or his son George’s mind,
And speaks the word according as he find * * *
[164] The (imaginary) bishop of the diocese.
[165] The value of ——.
[166] (Peak of his cap), in making obeisance to the passer-by.