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goats; and will keep as many la- ing it has become tyre, or coagula bouring oxen as will work three ploughs. Such a man, Trimula Nayaka says, besides paying rent, and finding his family in provisions, will annually make 100 Pagodas, or 331. 10s. 10d. His clothing, being a blanket, costs a mere trifle; and part of the money he expends in the marriages of the younger branches of the family, and in religious ceremonies; the remainder is in general buried, and a great deal of money is in this way lost; as when the men get old and stupid, they forget where their treasures are hidden, and sometimes die without divulging the secret.

The farmers also keep small flocks of goats and sheep, which are sent, under the charge of a boy, to the pastures near the village. In the evening they are brought home; when the goats are taken into the house, and the sheep are folded on the field of their proprietor.

The cattle in this country, as I have already mentioned, are milked by the men, who carry the produce home to the women; for they pre pare the butter. The milk, on its arrival, is immediately boiled for at least one hour; but two or three hours are reckoned better. The earthen pots, in which this is done, are in general so nasty, that after this operation no part of the produce of the dairy is tolerable to an European; and whatever they use, their own servants must prepare. The natives never use raw milk, alleging that it has no flavour. The boiled milk, that the family has not used, is allowed to cool in the same vessel; and a little of the former days tyre, or curdled milk, is added to promote its coagulation, and the acid fermentation. Next morn

ted acid milk. From the top of each potful, five or six inches of the Tyre are taken, and put into an earthen jar, where it is churned by turning round in it a split bamboo. This is done very expertly by a rope, which, like that of a turner's lathe, is passed two or three times round the bamboo, and a quick motion in contrary directions is given by pulling first one end of the rope, and then the other. After half an hour's churning, some hot water is added, and the operation is repeated for about half an hour more; when the butter forms. The natives never use butter; but prefer what is called Ghee, not only as that keeps better, but also as it has more taste and smell. In order to collect a quantity sufficient for making Ghee, the butter is often kept two or three days; and in that time a warm climate renders it highly rancid. When a sufficient quantity las been collected, it is melted in an earthen pot, and boiled until all the water mixed with the butter bas evaporated. It is then taken from the fire; and, for what reason I could not learn, a little tyre ani salt, or betel-leaf and reddle, are added. It is kept in pots, has a very strong smell, and is best preserved from spoiling by a little tamarind and salt, which at any rate enter into the dishes of all the natives that can afford to use Ghee. It is eaten when even a year old. Three Pucka Seers, or 252 Rupees weight of buffaloes milk, give 100 Rupees weight of Ghee; the same quantity of cow and buffalo milk mixed, as usual, give 80 Rupees weight; cow milk alone gives 60 Rupees weight, and goat milk only 40 Rupees weight.



ODE for the NEW YEAR, 1807.
By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq. Poet-Laureat.


HEN loud and drear the tempests roar,

high billowy rise,

And headlong 'gainst the rocky shore,
Driven by the blast, the giddy vessel flies;
Unguided, by the wild waves borne,
Her rudder broke, her tackling torne,
Say, does the seaman's daring mind
Shrink from the angry frown of fate?
Does he, to abject fear resign'd,
Th' impending stroke in silence wait?
No-while he pours the fervent prayer
To Him whose will can punish or can spare,
Cool and intrepid 'mid the sound

Of winds and waves that rage around,

The powers that skill and strength impart,

The nervous arm, th' undaunted heart,

Collecting,-firm he fronts the threat'ning storm,

And braves, with fearless breast, fell Death's terrific form:


So, though around our sea-encircled reigu,

The dreadful tempest seem to lower,

Dismay'd do Britain's hardy train

Await in doubt the threat'ning hour?

Lo! to his sons, with cheering voice,
Albion's bold Genius calls aloud:
Around him valiant myriads crowd,
Or death or victory their choice;
From ev'ry port astonish'd Europe sees

Britannia's white sails swelling with the breeze;
Not her imperial barks alone



Awe the proud foe on ev'ry side,
Commerce her vessels launches on the tide,
And her indignant sons awhile

Seceding from their wonted toil,

Turn from the arts of Peace their care,
Hurl from each deck the bolts of war,
To sweep th' injurious boasters from the main,
Who dare to circumscribe Britannia's naval reign.


And see with emulative zeal

Our hosts congenial ardour feel;
The ardent spirit, that of yore

Flam'd high on Gallia's vanquish'd shore;
Or burn'd by Danube's distant flood,

When flow'd his current ting'd with Gallic blood;
Or shone on Lincelles' later fight:

Or fir'd by Acre's tow'rs the Christian Knight;
Or taught on Maida's fields the Gaul to feel,
Urg'd by the Briton's arm, the British steel;
Now in each breast with heat redoubled glows,
And gleams dismay and death on Europe's ruthless foes.


Not to Ambition's specious charm,

Not to th' ensanguin'd Despot's hand,

Is conquest bound-a mightier Arm

Than Earth's proud tyrants can withstand,

The balance holds of human fate,

Raises the low and sinks the great;
Exerting then in Europe's cause
Each energy of arm and mind,

All that from force or skill the warrior draws,
Yet to th' Almighty power resign'd,
Whose high behest all Nature's movements guides,
Controls the battle's and the ocean's tides;

Britain still hopes that Heav'n her vows will hear,
While Mercy rears her shield, and Justice points her spear.

ODE for his MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, 1807.

By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq. Poet-Laureat.


TILL does the trumpet's brazen throat


Pour forth a martial sound,

Still do the notes of battle float

In warlike clangour round;



Nor rural pipe, nor past'ral lay,
In peaceful descant hail the day

To grateful Britain ever dear;
The thunder of embattled plains,
And shouting Conquest's choral strains;
Burst on the listening ear.


Yet, while Bellona's iron car

Whirls o'er th' ensanguin'd plains,

'Mid Hyperborean climes afar
Stern War terrific reigns;
While, with colossal power endow'd,
The ruthless minister of blood

Calls to his scatter'd naval host,
Go forth, and bid the bolts of fate
On Britain's trembling harbours wait,
Shut Commerce from her coast;


Behold, the sovereign Queen of Isles,
The Empress of the Waves,
Meeting the vaunt with scornful smiles,
The empty menace braves;

And see, on Plata's sea-broad stream
Her banners wave, her bright arms gleam;
While ploughing seas of classic fame,
Nile yields once more to Albion's powers,
And Alexandria vails her towers

To George's mightier name.


Firm are the sons that Britain leads
To combat on the main,

And firm the hardy race that treads
In steady march the plain:

And proudly may her Bards record
The victor arm, the victor sword,

That drives the foe from Ocean's tide;

And loudly too, with fond acclaim,
Chaunt trophied Maida's deathless fame,
With military pride.


Be hush'd awhile each ruder sound,
While Britain's grateful voice

Bids all her echoing vales resound
The Monarch of her choice.


Though round the tyrant's hated throne
Arm'd legions form an iron zone,

They cannot blunt guilt's scorpion sting;
While Virtue's sacred shield is spread
O'er George's heav'n-protected head,
The Parent and the King.



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[From Mr. R. P. Knight's Monody.]

LIKE all ages, nations, states, and climes,
Abound in talents fit for common times;
Pageants of office, who with starch grimace
Display the garb of sense in pomp of face;
Who, wise in forms, to forms alone attend;
And, busy in the means, neglect the end;
Who, in their little circle's narrow bound,
Think they move forward, while they're moving round
And, dreading innovation, still pursue
The beaten track, when all around is new.
Idols of court, and puppets of debate,
Awhile they deck the pantomime of state;
Like bubbles float upon the tide of power,
And shine the glittering meteors of an hour,

"But genius, choicest gift of favouring Heaven,
Once in a thousand years is scarcely given:
Pure mental essence, of celestial birth,
It rarely mixes with the dross of earth,
To show creation on a nobler plan,
And give the world Heaven's model of a man.
Before it Science, Art, and Learning bend ;
Through all at once its radiant lights extend;
Scoining the aids which humbler minds require,
It mounts spontaneous in electric fire;
Intuitively pierces each disguise,

And drags to light each truth that hidden lies;
In uative energy serenely strong,
Pours the full tide of eloquence along;
Prepared alike in every mode to shine,
To guide a senate, or to point a line;
Empires to rule, and armies to direct,
Or metaphysic fallacies detect;


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