That good old fame the farmers earned of yore,

That made as equals, not as slaves, the poor,

That good old fame did in two sparks expire -

A shooting coxcomb and a hunting squire;

And their old mansions that were dignified

With things far better than the pomp of pride;

At whose oak table, that was plainly spread,

Each guest was welcomed and the poor were fed,

Where master, son, and serving-man and clown

Without distinction daily sat them down,

Where the bright rows of pewter by the wall

Served all the pomp of kitchen or of hall -

These all have vanished like a dream of good;

And the slim things that rise where once they stood

Are built by those whose clownish taste aspires

To hate their farms and ape the country squires.