"Pish," says the Squire, "pray keep your sitting."
"No, no," "Hob cries," zur, 'tis not fitting;
Tho' I'm no scholard, vars'd in letters,
I knaws my duty to my betters."
Much mirth the Farmer's ways afford,
And hearty laughs go round the board.
Thus the first course was ended well,
But at the next, ah, what befel!
The dishes now were timely plac'd,
And table with fresh luxury grac'd.
When drank to by a neigb'ring charmer,
Up, as was usual, stands the Farmer.
A wag, to carry on the joke,
Thus to the servant softly spoke --
"Come hither, Dick, step gently there,
And pull away the Farmer's chair."
'Tis done, his congee made, the clown
Draws back, and stoops to sit him down;
But by posteriors overweigh'd,
And of his trusty seat betray'd,
As men at twigs in river sprawling,
He seiz'd the cloth to save his falling.
In vain: sad fortune! down he wallow'd,
And, rattling, all the dishes follow'd.
The foplings lost their little wits,
The ladies squall'd, some fell in fits;
Here tumbled turkies, tarts, and widgeons,
And there mine'd pies, and geese, and pigeons;
A pear-pie on his belly drops,
A custard pudding meets his chops.
Zounds, what ado 'twixt belles and beaux!
Some curse, some cry, and wipe their clothes.
This lady raves, and that looks down,
And weeps and wails her spatter'd gown:
One spark bemoans his greased waistcoat,
One "Rot him," cries, "he's spoil'd my lac'd coat."
Amidst the rout, the Farmer long
The pudding suck'd and held his tongue,
At length he gets him on his breech,
And scrambles up to make his speech;
Scrapes eyes, and mouth and nostril twangs,
Then smacks his fingers, and harangues,
"Plague tak't--I'ze told ye how 'twou'd be,
Luck, here's a pickle, zur, d'ye see?
And zome, I'll warrant, that makes this chatter,
Have clothes bedaub'd with grease and batter,
