TIPTREE, 
 
 FAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 dFrom tfft fgdep); Stantiatlr. 
 
 O Tiptree ! I remember thee 
 The loneliest of all lonely places, 
 
 Such as no soul would wish to see; 
 
 But then — thou hadst thy Fair and Races. 
 
 When farmer White and farmer Brown 
 Hung out the broom of invitation, 
 
 And gathered friends from every town 
 To mirth and harmless recreation. 
 
 And neighb’ring squires of high degree 
 Brought out their wives with smiling faces, 
 Mix’d with the smock-frock Johns to see 
 The annual fun of Tiptree Races. 
 
 All places have a name they say; 
 
 Thou wer’t as famed as any going, 
 
 For Tiptree always fix’d the day 
 For farmers to begin turnip sowing. 
 
 And they who liv’d on early lands 
 
 Were proud, if, whilst thy Fair was keeping, 
 They could engage some active hands, 
 
 And send them in the fields to reaping. 
 
 When clock struck four, and beaver come. 
 
 The sickles laid aside with care. 
 
 Off were the men, without beat of drum. 
 
 To enjoy the pleasures of the Fair. 
 
 And hail, old Ship of Potter Row, 
 
 Your sign has weathered many a year! 
 Happy the swain that chanced to know 
 The smack and flavour of thy beer. 
 
 O land of clay, and land of flood, 
 
 A heath that scarce produced a brier 
 For those who waded through the mud. 
 
 To gather for their scanty fire. 
 
 Thy fields so barren too and hard, 
 
 That he who came witR simple store. 
 
 And worked and toiled, met no reward. 
 
 But left thee poorer than before. 
 
 While neighbouring lands, with trivial toil. 
 Responded to the farmers’ wishes. 
 
 But thou a stubborn lifeless soil. 
 
 Just fit for bricks, and tiles, and dishes. 
 
 Who could have thought a perfect stranger 
 Should visit thee with generous bounty. 
 
 And make the Tiptree barn and manger 
 By far the richest in the county? 
 
 Scene, how reversed, and table turned; 
 
 Hear it, O Tiptree ! and express 
 Thanks to his genius who learned 
 To change your clods to fruitfulness. 
 
 Greatest of patriots — that man 
 
 Whose active soul and generous hand 
 So skilfully matured the plan 
 To scatter plenty on thy land. 
 
 Mechi I my pen has not the power 
 Sufficiently to speak your praise; 
 
 Heaven give thee many a happy hour, 
 
 And prosper thee with length of days ! 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1846. 
 
 I'otham : Printed by C, Clark, ( an Amateur) at his Private Press,