Had wasted all the fuel, that late

Had fed the fires of mortal hate,

And nearly worn all traces out

Of what old quarrels were about.
While Fashion, that gay lunatic,

Who of repose is ever sick,

Soon caught with toys, and tired as soon,

Still changing with the changing moon,

Trod on the heels of Time, her hand

Waving high her magic wand,

That turn'd to some fantastic shape

Whate'er could Time's fell swoop escape.

Now 'mongst those fashion-mongers fine,

Who offer'd incense at her shrine,

Were some, like Repton, that vain prater,

The great man-milliner to Nature,

Who told the Squire, how smart, complete,

And fine a thing, 'twould make his seat,

To inclose the neighbouring bog so waste, And drain it in the modern taste.

Now 'mid this bog, which was proposed

To be drain'd thus and thus enclosed,

Stood the low hut and garden, where

Peter had toil'd for many a year.

His right and title to the hut

Long tenure beyond question put;

Besides he had conform'd to all

Customs and laws manorial,

His quit-rents paid, and steward's fees,

And done all work and services:

Nor could the Squire, without offence

Against the law, eject him thence;

A fellow of good parts and wit,
Engaged that he'd accomplish it.

This knave, as cunning as a Scot,

One evening came to Peter's cot,

Just as his daily task was o'er,

And found him at his humble door.

"I
I hope," he cried, "I don't intrude,

"Good sir, upon your solitude;

"I have presumed;-nay, I intreat

"That you will please to keep your seat.

"I hither come at the desire

"Of your old friend, my lord, the Squire."

My friend! fie! 'tis a sorry jest:

"Leave me:-see! the sun seeks the west:

"Go, before twilight falls;-make haste,

"Else thou❜lt be lost upon the waste."

"First hear me out," the knave replied,

"With grief, my lord, the Squire hath found,

"On what a narrow spot of ground,

"Without a shelter for your head,

"Save this old weather-beaten shed,

"You live, in midst of bog and swamp,

66

Cheerless, unprofitable, damp, ›

"While the bare spot can ill supply

"Food for yourself and family."

"And this he now first learns, you'd say?

"We came not hither yesterday:

"'Tis strange, so many years are o'er,

"That he ne'er thought of us before."

"We are content, though small our store,

"And think it no shame to be poor.

"But wherefore sends he now?"

"He sends,

"As one, who warmly loves his friends,