If Coalston had its _pear_, fair Lethington! Thou hadst thy apples, with which none may vie; As Jove’s own fruit, thy boughs beneath them groan, Like aromatic sweets dropt from the sky— Beneath their shades the archers oft would try Their strength of arm; and, at the day’s decline, They tasted Maitland’s hospitality In draughts of Angiers that gleam’d divine, And fed their hearts with joy, as erst it fed the vine.