Clos'd the blear eye, ordain'd no more to weep, And sunk, unheeded sunk, in death's long sleep! O how unlike the bard of higher sphere, Whose happier numbers charm the polish'd ear; Whose muse in academic bowers reclines, And, cheer'd by affluence, pours her classic lines; Whose sapient brow, though angry critics frown, Boasts the green chaplet, and the laurel crown! "His LEGENDARY SONG could tell "Of ancient deeds, so long forgot; "Of feuds, whose memory was not ; 66 Of forests, non laid waste and bare; Of towers, which harbour now the hare; "Of MANNERS, long since chang'd and gone; "Of chiefs, who under their grey stone "So long had slept, that fickle Fame "Had blotted from her rolls their name.” THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL, Canto 4. THE Suffolk Horkey, A PROVINCIAL BALLAD: BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. "In Suffolk," says Sir John Cullum in his entertaining History of Hansted, "the harvest lasts "about five weeks; during which the harvestman earns "about £3. The agreement between the farmers and "their hired harvestmen is made on Whitson Monday. "Harvest gloves of 7d. a pair are still presented. During harvest, if any strangers happen to come into "the field, they are strongly solicited to make a pre"sent to the labourers, and those who refuse are reckon"ed churlish and covetous. This present is called a Largess; and the benefactor is celebrated on the spot, by the whole troop, nho first cry out, Holla! Lar"gess! Holla!. Largess! They then set up two 66 |