The man who would not look with honest pride
On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide,
And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee,
Home, through the mighty perils of the sea,
I love him not.--He ne'er shall be my guest;
Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest;
Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame,
A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame;
But thou through life a monitor shalt prove,
Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love.
Dec. 1803.
THE HORKEY. A Provincial Ballad.
ADVERTISEMENT.
In the descriptive ballad which follows, it will be evident that I have
endeavoured to preserve the style of a gossip, and to transmit the
memorial of a custom, the extent or antiquity of which I am not acquainted
with, and pretend not to enquire.
In Suffolk husbandry the man who, (whether by merit or by sufferance I
know not) goes foremost through the harvest with the scythe or the sickle,
is honoured with the title of "_Lord_," and at the Horkey, or harvest-home
feast, collects what he can, for himself and brethren, from the farmers
and visitors, to make a "frolick" afterwards, called "the largess
spending.
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