Sighs speak the poor Labourers' pain,
While the new mounds and fences they rear,
Intersecting their dear native plain,
To divide to each rich Man his share;
It cannot but grieve them to see,
Where so freely they rambled before,
What a bare narrow track is left free
To the foot of the unportion'd Poor.

6

The proud City's gay wealthy train.
Who nought but refinements adore,
May wonder to hear me complain
That Honington Green is no more;
But if to the Church you e'er went,
If you knew what the village has been,
You will sympathize, while I lament
The Enclosure of Honington Green.

7

That no more upon Honington Green
Dwells the Matron whom most I revere,
If by pert observation unseen,
I e'en now could indulge a fond tear.
E'er her bright Morn of Life was o'ercast,
When my senses first woke to the scene,
Some short happy hours she had past