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William Cowper - The Distress`d Travellers; or, Labour in Vain
Work rating: Low

I.
I sing of a journey to Clifton, 
We would have perform`d if we could, 
Without cart or barrow to lift on 
Poor Mary and me through the mud; 
Slee, sla, slud, 
Stuck in the mud, 
Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood! 

II.
So away we went, slipping and sliding, 
Hop, hop, a la mode de deux frogs. 
`Tis near as good walking as riding, 
When ladies are dress`d in their clogs. 
Wheels, no doubt, 
Go briskly about, 
But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout! 

III.
SHE:
Well! now I protest it is charming; 
How finely the weather improves! 
That cloud, though, is rather alarming; 
How slowly and stately it moves! 

HE:
Pshaw! never mind; 
`Tis not in the wind; 
We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind. 

IV.
SHE:
I am glad we are come for an airing, 
For folks may be pounded and penn`d, 
Until they grow rusty, not caring 
To stir half a mile to an end. 

HE:
The longer we stay, 
The longer we may; 
It`s a folly to think about weather or way. 

V.
SHE:
But now I begin to be frighted: 
If I fall, what a way I should roll! 
I am glad that the bridge was indicted.-- 
Stop! stop! I am sunk in a hole! 

HE:
Nay, never care! 
`Tis a common affair; 
You`ll not be the last that will set a foot there. 

VI.
SHE:
Let me breathe now alittle, and ponder 
On what it were better to do. 
That terrible lane, I see yonder, 
I think we shall never get through!
 
HE:
So think I; 
But, by the bye, 
We never shall know, if we never should try. 

VII.
SHE:
But should we get there, how shall we get home? 
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past, 
Slipping and sliding; and if we should come 
To a difficult stile, I am ruin`d at last. 
Oh this lane! 
Now it is plain 
That struggling and striving is labour in vain. 

VIII.
HE:
Stick fast there, while I go and look. 

SHE:
Don`t go away, for fear I should fall! 

HE:
I have examin`d it every nook, 
And what you have here is a sample of all. 
Come, wheel round; 
The dirt we have found 
Would be an estate at a farthing a pound. 

IX.
Now, Sister Anne, the guitar you must take; 
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song. 
I have vari`d the verse for variety sake, 
And cut it off short, because it was long. 
`Tis hobbling and lame, 
Which critics won`t blame, 
For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same.
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