The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye horn'd inhabitants of Windsor Park,
Where reign'd sweet hospitality of yore,
Why are you not as merry as the lark?
Why is it that so dismally you roar?

Ah me! I guess the cause!—our glorious king
Would fatten cattle in the cheapest way—
It is, it is, horse-chesnuts!—that's the thing
Which give each face the cloud of dire dismay.

Say, do the prickles stab each gentle beard?—
You wish t'oblige the king; but, ah! with pain
You turn them round and round, to bite afeard,
And faintly mumbling, drop them out again.

Fain would I comfort ye with better meat—
God knows I pity ev'ry plaintive tone—
Gladly your gums with turnips would I greet,
And give the fragrant hay to sooth each groan.

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Say, are the nuts too solid to be chew'd?—
Of want of nut-crackers do ye complain?
Ye make up awkward mouths upon your food;
But plaint of ev'ry sort is pour'd in vain.

Condemn'd on such hard fare to sup and dine,
And often by its stubborn nature foil'd,
Perhaps you wish it roasted, gentle kine,
Or probably you wish it stew'd or boil'd.

But coals cost money—labour must be sav'd—
Know this would prove a great expense indeed:
Ah! kine, by such œconomy close-shav'd,
Your bellies grumble, and your mouths must bleed.

Your leanness mortifies the king of nations:
Displeas'd he wonders that you won't grow fat:
Your high back-bones employ his speculations,
Much your poor bellies exercise his chat.

The man whose lofty head adorns a crown,
That stoutly studies bullocks, pigs, and books,
Wants much to see you knock'd by butchers down,
And hung in fair array upon their hooks.

Yet murm'ring creatures, life is vastly sweet—
For life, were I a bullock, I should sigh:
Much rather make a sacrifice to meat;
Live on horse-chesnuts, than on turnips die.