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 T H E F A R M E R' S  B L U N D E R.

A Farmer once to London went To pay the worthy Squire his rent; He comes, he knocks, soon entrance gains-- Who at the door such guest detains? Forth struts the Squire exeeeding smart; "Farmer, you're welcome to my heart;                    You've brought my rent, then."--"To a hair." "The best of tenants, I declare." The steward's call'd, accounts made even, And money paid, receipt is given.

"Well,” quoth the Squire, "yon now shall stay And dine with me, old friend, to-day: I've here some ladies, wondrous pretty, And pleasant sparks, too, that will fit thee;"                    Hob scratch'd his ears, and held his hat,                     And said, "No, zur, two words to that, For look, d'ye zee, when I'ze to dine With gentlefolk zo cruel fine, I'ze use to make (and 'tis no wonder) In deed or word some plaguy blunder; Zo, if your honour will permit, I'll with your zarvants pick a bit."

"Pho," says the Squire, “it sha'nt be done,"                    And to the parlour push'd him on.                     To all around Hob nods and screpes,                     Not waiting-maid or butler 'scapes;                     With often bidding takes his seat,                     But at a distance mighty great:                     Tho' often ask'd to draw his chair,                     He nods, nor comes an inch more near.                     By madam serv'd with body bended,                     With knife and fork, and arms extended,                     He reached as far as he was able,                      To plate that overhung the table:                     With little morsels cheats his chops,                     And in the passage some he drops;                     To show where most his heart inclin'd,                     He talked and drank to John behind. When drank to in the modish way, "Your love's sufficient, zur," he'd say; And to be thought a man of manners, Still rose to make his awkward honours.