38
Here is no clock, nor will they turn the glass,
And see how swift th' important moments pass;
There are no Books, but Ballads on the wall,
Are some abusive, and indecent all;
Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks,
Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks;
An ample flask, that nightly rovers fill,
With recent poison from the Dutchman's still;
A box of tools with wires of various size,
Frocks, wigs, and hats, for Night or Day disguise,
And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize.
To every House belongs a space of Ground,
Of equal size once fenc'd with Paling round;
That Paling now by slothful waste destroy'd,
Dead Gorse and Stumps of Elder fill the void;
Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay,
Hide Sots and Striplings at their drink and play;
Within, a board, beneath a til'd retreat,
Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat;
Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows,
Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows;
Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile,
The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings vile;
Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door,
And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor.
Here his poor Bird, th' inhuman Cocker brings,
Arms his hard heel, and clips his golden wings;
With spicy food, th' impatient spirit feeds,
And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds:
And see how swift th' important moments pass;
There are no Books, but Ballads on the wall,
Are some abusive, and indecent all;
Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks,
Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks;
An ample flask, that nightly rovers fill,
With recent poison from the Dutchman's still;
A box of tools with wires of various size,
Frocks, wigs, and hats, for Night or Day disguise,
And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize.
To every House belongs a space of Ground,
Of equal size once fenc'd with Paling round;
That Paling now by slothful waste destroy'd,
Dead Gorse and Stumps of Elder fill the void;
Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay,
Hide Sots and Striplings at their drink and play;
Within, a board, beneath a til'd retreat,
Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat;
Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows,
Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows;
Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile,
The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings vile;
Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door,
And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor.
Here his poor Bird, th' inhuman Cocker brings,
Arms his hard heel, and clips his golden wings;
With spicy food, th' impatient spirit feeds,
And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds:
