The New Hampshire Gazette

From the Gentleman's Magazine

A POEM on his native Country,
by a Welsh Curate remov'd into England.

YE British Alps. where first I drew
My vital breath, I sing to you.
Black mountains falsely call'd, who wear
A snowy mantle half the year.
As mariners, whom some kind plank
Bears o'er the waves to rock or bank,
The tempest view with pleasing dread,
And love to tell the dangers fled :
So I from cold and hunger free,
Your distant hills with pleasure see;
Joyful reflect what frosts I shun,
Now basking in a warmer sun.
The fates be bless'd, and bless the time,
I left your barren barbarous clime;
A clime where not a man is fat,
Where bread is coarse, and black as jet.
On roots and herbs from day to day
They live, on buttermilk and whey ;
Oats-cake sometimes, the gentlemen
Have eggs and bacon now and then.
Had our first parents here transgress'd,
They scarce with fig leaves had been dress'd.
No figs, no dates, no prunes are here,
And scarce a tree a crab will bear.
Why nature did this herd divide
And separate from the World beside.
The uncouth language of the land
No nation else may understand.
A striking, lazy, savage crew
Ruder than beasts that Orpheus drew
I quit; tho' much shou'd Orpheus play,
These statues would his lyre obey.
Tho' at his call the tones advanc'd,
Tho' to his strains the forest danc'd.
Th' unhappy author of my race,
Poor soul, was parson of the place ;
Hard doom, to tend a ragged flock!
Chain'd like Prometheus to a rock:
Nor milk the shepherd had, nor meat
Scarce clothes to wear, or bread to eat.
The wags would say, The parson's bare,
His sheep are goats, their wool is hair.
(Truth spoke in jest) for goats they were,
And never worth his pains to shear.
Thanks to the pow'r, that mov'd me thence.
To land of bread, to men of sense,
Where plenty's horn abundance sheds,
And pours its blessings on our heads ;
Delicious cyder crowns our bowls,
Nectar of gods to raise our souls.
Here let me live, be buried here.
But ne'er those hills, those wastes come near :
No, ne'er on them one foot I'll fix.
The sink of planters, mouth of Styx.
Should I the government offend,
And banishment must be my end,
In Irish bogs, the Orcades, etc.
Pontus, Siberia, where you please,
In any exile be my doom,
But let me not be banish'd home.