Was rather proud and obstinate,

And unforgiving in his hate;

And sometimes, with small reason for❜t,

Would take dislikes upon report,

And when once settled in his brain,

Nothing could root them out again,

His prejudices he'd defend

As warmly as a bosom-friend,

And held them for his foes, who strove

Thefe cherished hatreds to remove.

But, in the main, it must be said,

He was a worthy jovial blade,

That loved a merry tale and glass,

And had a sharp eye for a lass.

In the same village, at a farm,

Shelter'd from storms, compact and warm,

With barns well fill'd and dairy stored,

And plenty ever at his board,

A farmer lived:- to suit our metre,

Or our rhyme rather, call him Peter.

His farm, not sterile moor, nor marish,

But the best land in all the parish,

He rented of the Squire so small

His rent, 'twas almost nominal:

And e'en for this the Squire would take

A day's work once a week, or cake

Of which he lov'd to eat, and none

Could make, save Peter's self alone.

Indeed there did not live a creature

That he seemed fonder of than Peter;

Not merely for his worth, but 'cause

Peter o'the Manor Steward was;

And for his Lord, whose chief estate

Lay somewhere in the South, of late

The manor had not visited,

Peter directed in his stead,

And had the management entire

Of every thing, so that the Squire

Thought to gain Peter's love, might keep

Jars 'twixt the Lord and him at sleep.

Thus favour'd by his lord and Squire,

With nothing left him to desire,

Riches flow'd on him in a stream,

And with them brought the world's esteem:

While freely he would share his store

With the unfortunate and poor;

And they, whom the rough world did harm,

Found a sure refuge at the farm.

There had he been living still,

But for that source of every ill,

WOMAN: Alas! what wond'rous pity

Such fruit should grow from flower so pretty!

He had, the story says, a niece,

Who was a very masterpiece

Of Nature's work, and in the Squire

Had kindled a consuming fire,

That made him resolute to dare

All ills to be possessed of her:

Though well he knew the hatred sore

That Peter to her father bore;

Knew that, as the deadliest sin

He loathed him and all his kin;

Knew that mutual injury

Had eternized their enmity

For Martin, so was called the brother,

Where'er he came, reviled the other:

Venom dropp'd ceaseless from his tongue,
And, like empoisoned arrows, stung.

It might have pass'd, had he but scolded;
But when his brother's sheep were folded,

Then slily would he come 'ith' dark,

Cut out the Cross, his brother's mark,

And lead them, through bye-paths unknown,

From their old sheepcote to his own:

Whom ever after he would keep,

In pity, as he said, to th' sheep,

Lest all, in Peter's damp sheepcote,,

Should die o'th' murrain or the rot.

In short, the Steward he abhorr'd,

And made a mockery of his lord.