Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE YEARLY DISTRESS; OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX, by WILLIAM COWPER Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest Last Line: Without the clowns that pay. Subject(s): Tithes | ||||||||
Verses addressed to a country Clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the Parsonage. COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, To laugh it would be wrong, The troubles of a worthy priest, The burden of my song. This priest he merry is and blithe Three quarters of a year, But oh! it cuts him like a scythe When tithing-time draws near. He then is full of frights and fears, As one at point to die, And long before the day appears He heaves up many a sigh. For then the farmers come jog, jog, Along the miry road, Each heart as heavy as a log, To make their payments good. In sooth, the sorrow of such days Is not to be expressed, When he that takes, and he that pays, Are both alike distressed. Now, all unwelcome at his gates, The clumsy swains alight, With rueful faces and bald pates-- He trembles at the sight. And well he may, for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes, Will cheat him if he can. So in they come--each makes his leg, And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg, And not to quit a score. "And how does Miss and Madam do, The little boy and all?" "All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr. What-d'ye call?" The dinner comes, and down they sit: Were e'er such hungry folk? There's little talking and no wit; It is no time to joke. One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, One spits upon the floor, Yet, not to give offence or grieve, Holds up the cloth before. The punch goes round, and they are dull And lumpish still as ever; Like barrels with their bellies full, They only weigh the heavier. At length the busy time begins: "Come, neighbours, we must wag"-- The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag. One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs that he has lost By maggots at the tail. Quoth one, "A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear: But yet, methinks, to tell you true, You sell it plaguy dear." Oh, why are farmers made so coarse, Or clergy made so fine? A kick that scarce would move a horse, May kill a sound divine. Then let the boobies stay at home; 'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum, Without the clowns that pay. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A COMPARISON by WILLIAM COWPER A COMPARISON [ADDRESSED] TO A YOUNG LADY by WILLIAM COWPER BOADICEA; AN ODE by WILLIAM COWPER EPITAPH ON A HARE by WILLIAM COWPER OLNEY HYMNS: 1. WALKING WITH GOD by WILLIAM COWPER OLNEY HYMNS: 18. LOVEST THOU ME? by WILLIAM COWPER OLNEY HYMNS: 35. LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS by WILLIAM COWPER OLNEY HYMNS: 49. JOY AND PEACE IN BELIEVING by WILLIAM COWPER OLNEY HYMNS: 9. THE CONTRITE HEART by WILLIAM COWPER ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH by WILLIAM COWPER |
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