One Sunday morning — service done —

‘Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,

A knot of bumpkins stood to chat

Of that and this, and this and that;

What people said of Polly Hatch —

Which side had won the-cricket match;

And who was cotch’d, and who was bowl’d; —

How barley, beans, and ‘taters sold —

What men could swallow at a meal —

When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal —

And who was taken off to jail —

And where they brew’d the strongest ale —

At last this question they address,

“What’s Agricultural Distress?”
Hodge.

“For my peart, it’s a thought o’ mine,

It be the fancy farming line,

Like yonder gemman — him I mean,

As took the Willa nigh the Green —

And turn’d his cattle in the wheat;

And gave his porkers hay to eat;

And sent his footman up to town,

To ax the Lonnon gentry down,

To be so kind as make his hay,

Exactly on St. Swithin’s day; —

With consequences you may guess —

That’s Hagricultural Distress.”
Dickon.

“Last Monday morning, Master Blogg

Com’d for to stick our bacon-hog;

But th’ hog he cock’d a knowing eye,

As if he twigg’d the reason why,

And dodg’d and dodg’d ’un such a dance,

He didn’t give the noose a chance;

So Master Blogg at last lays off,

And shams a rattle at the trough,

When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog

Atwixt the legs o’ Master Blogg,

And flops him down in all the muck,

As hadn’t been swept up by luck —

Now that, accordin’ to my guess,

Be Hagricultural Distress.”
Giles.

“No, that arn’t it, I tell ‘ee flat;

I’ze bring a worser case nor that!”

“Last Friday week, I takes a start

To Reading, with our horse and cart;

Well, when I’ze set the ‘taters down,

I meets a crony at the Crown;

And what betwixt the ale and Tom,

It’s dark afore I starts for home;

So whipping hard, by long and late,

At last we reaches nigh the gate,

And, sure enough, there Master stand,

A lantern flaring in his hand —

‘Why, Giles,’ says he, ‘what’s that ’un thear?

Yond’ chestnut horse bean’t my bay mear!

He bean’t not worth a leg o’ Bess!’

There’s Hagricultural Distress!”
Hob.

“That’s nothin yet, to Tom’s mishap!

A-gooing through the yard, poor chap,

Only to fetch his milking-pails,

When up he shies like head or tails;

Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be,

Till he had toss’d the best o’ three; —

And there lies Tom with broken bones,

A surgeon’s job for Doctor Jones;

Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law,

‘There’s two crackt ribs, besides a jaw —

Eat well,’ says he, ‘stuff out your case,

For that will keep the ribs in place;’

But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw,

Seeing as how he’d broke his jaw?

That’s summut to the pint — yes, yes,

That’s Hagricultural Distress!”
Simon.

“Well, turn and turn about is fair:

Tom’s bad enough, and so’s the mare;

But nothing to my load of hay —

You see, ’twas hard on quarter-day,

And cash was wanted for the rent;

So up to Lonnon I was sent,

To sell as prime a load of hay,

As ever dried on summer’s day.

“Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,

A chap comes up to buy my load,

And looks, and looks about the cart,

Pretending to be ‘cute and smart;

But no great judge, as people say,

‘Cause why? he never smelt the hay.

Thinks I, as he’s a simple chap,

He’ll............