Analysis of The Yearly Distress; Or, Tithing-Time At Stock In Essex
William Cowper 1731 (Berkhamsted) – 1800 (Dereham)
Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong;
The troubles of a worthy priest
The burden of my song.
This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of the year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe
When tithing time draws near.
He then is full of frights and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.
For then the farmers come, jog, jog,
Along the miry road,
Each heart as heavy as a log,
To make their payments good.
In sooth the sorrow of such days
Is not to be expressed,
When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distressed.
Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates:--
He trembles at the sight.
And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.
So in they come -- each makes his leg,
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score.
'And how does miss and madam do,
The little boy and all?'
'All tight and well. And how do you,
Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?'
The dinner comes, and down they sit
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.
One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Yet not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins,
'Come, neighbours, we must wag.'
The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms and hail,
And one of pigs that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.
Quoth one, 'A rarer man than you
In pulpit none shall hear;
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguey dear.'
Oh, why were farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?
A kick that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
'Twould cost him I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.
Scheme | ABXB XCXC DEDE XXXX FAFA GHGH IJIJ KLKL MNMN OPOP QLQL XRXR XSDS TUTU MXMC VWVW XXXX |
---|---|
Poetic Form | Quatrain (88%) |
Metre | 11011111 111111 01010101 010111 11110101 110101 11111101 110111 11111101 111111 01010101 1111001 11010111 01011 11110101 111101 01010111 111101 11110111 110101 11010111 010101 11010011 11101 01111111 110101 01110111 111111 10111111 011101 01111111 011101 01110101 010101 11010111 1101111 01010111 0101101 11010011 111111 11110111 110101 1111111 110101 01110111 011110 11011101 11010100 11010101 11111 01011111 110111 1111011 011101 01111111 110101 11010111 010111 1111111 11111 11010111 110111 01111101 110101 1101111 111111 11010101 010111 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,036 |
Words | 420 |
Sentences | 25 |
Stanzas | 17 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4 |
Lines Amount | 68 |
Letters per line (avg) | 23 |
Words per line (avg) | 6 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 94 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 24 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 2:05 min read
- 44 Views
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"The Yearly Distress; Or, Tithing-Time At Stock In Essex" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 13 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/40204/the-yearly-distress%3B-or%2C-tithing-time-at-stock-in-essex>.
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