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The roads were so dirty before I got in,

I bespatter'd myself with the thick and the thin,
But, still pushing on, I continued to lag,

Till I came to the sign of the Lamb and the Flag.
The landlord and landlady kindly saluted,

And behav❜d very civil, it can't be disputed.

Two more decent folks you've scarce seen in your life;
But the landord's not quarter so fat as his wife:
Besides they've a daughter, a comely young creature,
Embellished with many a beautiful feature:
But that is a matter, I frankly agree,

To be canvass'd by people much younger than me.
Such beauty on me makes but little impression;
So now to my tale without further digression.

Lest the folks of the house should count me a scrub
I ask'd them to fetch me a glass of their shrub,
For gin, rum, or brandy I did not desire;

So I walk'd in the bar and sat down by the fire. Mr. Phillips, in short, thro' the kitchen did wheel With a boot on each leg and a spur on each heel Came forth and shook hands very cheerful and glad "Have you tin, sir, to day?" so I told him I had

That it was not come forth (it was then about noon,)
But that I expected it there very soon.

So, turning, he said he'd attend to the same,

And was ready to weigh it whenever it came.
Then soon I heard hollowing immod❜rately rough,
One, calling hitherho! and another, gee-off!

I thought they were come, by the bustle I heard,
And in two or three minutes they enter'd the yard.
The horses, poor creatures! were pulling and dragging,
And the drivers beside them respectively lagging.
I went out, as I thought 'twas no time to delay,
Mr. Phillips, I asked, are you ready to weigh?
He answer'd he was made a bit of a caper,

And went into the office for pen, ink, and paper.
Captain Dunstone came next, look'd as grave as a friar
Then took out the samples, and stood at the fire.
An honester soul you wont find in a million,
He'll not lose a grain of white tin from the pillion;
But brings round his samples so careful and nice,
It is not his fault if you've not a good price.
Now, lest my relation begin to grow stale,

I think 'twill be better to shorten my tale.

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Next the fire-men and carriers came round me like bees, And, according to custom, demanded their fees.

To grasp at their money all people are eager ;
We find it the same from the king to the beggar.
Having weigh'd off each parcel, and all very fair,
(I've no need to mention the quantity here,)
We finish'd our business concerning the tin,
Then pack'd up our papers and went to the inn.
The dinner was ready-'twas beef at the spit,
We were all of us eager for taking a bit.

So we enter'd the parlour, and each took his seat,
And in two or three minutes they serv'd up the meat.
The grace was but short, for the clock had struck two,
When people are hungry, short graces will do.

The dinner was decent, and dress'd very nice,

And the carver to each of us handed a slice.

Thus seated together, the saint with the sinner,
We ate very hearty and finished our dinner.

What the company drank, to write here 'tis no matter; But I took a rummer of brandy and water.

There were two mining captains, but who they might be, I cannot set forth, they were strangers to me;

They were talking of standers and gozzans and slides
And cross-lodes and heaves, and a great deal besides.

I thought to myself, I wont join their discourse,

If I can't make it better, I wont make it worse.
Though I'm fond of such chat when I've nought else to do,
But, the evening approaching, I wanted to go.

So I called for my bill; (but before it was paid,
I'd a bit of a hint to remember the maid ;)

Took my leave of my friends, being determined to jog,
And to keep up my spirits with a good glass of grog.

Thro' rain, wind, and mire, I homeward did lag,
So tir'd as a pilgrim and wet as a shag.

I had tramping and scamping and vamping a plenty,
And returned about seven with nothing for twenty.*

*No price given for the black tin.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF SAINT AUBYN.*

Saint Aubyn! thy fate we're deploring,
Regretting thy absence with pain,

Without the least hope of restoring
Thy name to such honor again.

Thy mem'ry, by sad recollection,

Serves only to heighten the gloom,
By filling each mind with dejection,
To think of thy sorrowful doom.

Saint Swithin is still held in favor,

Tho' we ne'er by his saintship were bless'd;

We would much rather use our endeavour

To blot out his name from the list.

But seeing 'tis useless to murmur,

And vain our complaints to renew,
We'll give a good name to the former,

And bid him a mournful adieu.

*“Saint Aubyn,” a local term, used chiefly in Cornwall, to signify an after feast on the day succeeding a public or mineaccount dinner.

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