Tir'd of his journey o'er a sandy waste,
Sangrado to Sylvania came at last:
A bear-skin coat was round his carcase roll'd,
Shivering with northern winds, that blew so cold:
Dark was the night—much for his shins he fear'd,
For not one lamp in all the town appear'd,
Twelve was the hour—the citizens, in bed,
Slept sound—of bears and wolves no more in dread;
No city-guards, no watchmen hove in sight,
No chyming bell sung out the time of night;
But foggy blasts their wintry music blew
Through shabby trees that round the court-house grew;
At length, alighting at one scurvy dome,
He knock'd—and hop'd the people were at home.—
Ho!—(cry'd the man within) ho! who are you?—
What! heigh!—from Cambria?—have you nothing new?—
Sangrado
Nothing at all—the times are shameful bad;
Money at ten per cent—hard to be had:
With apples and potatoes, our dear cousins
The northern men, are pouring in by dozens:
The French, 'tis said, will soon discharge their king—
This, friend, is all I know—and all I bring—
Citizen
What! not some oysters, gather'd near the coast,
Such as in days of old we lov'd to roast?
Sangrado
No, not an oyster—faith, you're in a dream,
To think I'd load my little nag with them:
We both are weary; let me in, I pray,
Even though you turn us out at break of day.
Citizen
'Tis midnight now—return from whence you come—
High time all honest people were at home.
Sangrado
Brother, me thinks my toes are somewhat cold—
Unbar your door—if one may be so bold:
Wet to the skin, and travelling all the day,
I want some rest—open the door, I say!
Citizen
Open the door, forsooth! the man is mad:
Lodging is not so easy to be had;
It is an article we do not trade in,
Nor shall my bed by all the world be laid in.
Our very hay-loft is as full as can be—
Push off, my friend, and try your luck at Granby.