Our village, that’s to say, not Miss Mitford’s village, but our village
      of Bullock Smithy,
Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and
      a withy;
And in the middle there’s a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a
      half;
It’s common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three
      horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf! 
Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law
      lease,
And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs,
      four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. 
Of course the green’s cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when
      the little village boys play at cricket;
Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and
      stand right before the wicket. 
There’s fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and
      pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,
With plenty of public-houses—­two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of
      Grapes, one Crown, and six King’s Heads. 
The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or
      money can raise
A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a
      ramshackle “neat post-chaise!”
There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their
      ranks in life or their degrees,
Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, a little Methodist
      Chapel of Ease;
And close by the churchyard, there’s a stone-mason’s yard, that when the
      time is seasonable
Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very
      low and reasonable. 
There’s a cage, comfortable enough; I’ve been in it with Old Jack
      Jeffery and Tom Pike;
For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else
      you like. 
I can’t speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright
      post;
But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob’s horse as is always
      there almost. 
There’s a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way,
      Old Joe Bradley,
Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very
      badly. 
There’s a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of
      Mr. Task;
But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of everything you ask. 
You’ll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old
      sugary cask: 
There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out,
For bill-stickers won’t beware, but stick notices of sales and election
      placards all about. 
That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in the
      window is seen;
A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a red geranium, and a