University of Virginia Library

Man of precarious Science vain,
Treats other Creatures with disdain;
Nor Pug, nor Shock have common Sense,
Nor even Pol. the least Pretence,
Tho' she prates better than us all,
To be accounted rational.
The Brute Creation here below,
It seems, is Nature's Puppet-Show;
But Clock-Work all, and meer Machine,
What can these idle Gimcracks mean?
Ye World-Makers of Gresham-Hall,
Dog Rover shall confute ye all;
Shall prove that ev'ry reas'ning Brute,
Like B---n of B---g---r can dispute;
Can apprehend, judge, syllogize,
Or like proud B---t---y criticize:
At a moot Point, or odd Disaster,
Is often wiser than his Master.
He may mistake sometimes, 'tis true,
None are infallible but you.
The Dog whom nothing can mislead,
Must be a Dog of Parts indeed:
But to my Tale, hear me (my Friend)
And with due Gravity attend.

Rover (as Heralds are agreed)
Well-born, and of the Setting Breed;
Rang'd high, was stout, of Nose acute,
A very learn'd, and courteous Brute.
In par'llel Lines his Ground he beat,
Not such as in one Centre meet;
In those let blund'ring Doctors deal,
His were exactly parallel.
When tainted Gales the Game betray,
Down close he sinks, and eyes his Prey.
Tho' diff'rent Passions tempt his Soul,
True as the Needle to the Pole,
He keeps his Point, and panting lies,
The floating Net above him flies,
Then dropping, sweeps the flutt'ring Prize.
Nor this his only Excellence,
When surly Farmers took offence,
And the rank Corn the Sport deny'd,
Still faithful to his Master's side,
A thousand pretty Pranks he play'd,
And chearful each Command obey'd:
Humble his Mind, tho' great his Wit,
Wou'd lug a Pig, or turn the Spit;
Wou'd fetch, and carry, leap o'er Sticks,
And forty such diverting Tricks.
Nor Partridge, nor wise Gadbury,
Cou'd find lost Goods so soon as he;
Bid him go back a Mile or more,
And seek the Glove you hid before,
Still his unerring Nose wou'd wind it,
If above Ground, was sure to find it;
Whimp'ring for joy his Master greet,
And humbly lay it at his Feet.

But hold!—It cannot be deny'd,
That useful Talents misapply'd,
May make wild Work. It happ'd one day,
Squire Lobb, his Master, took his way,
New shav'd, and smug, and very tight,
To compliment a neighb'ring Knight;
In his best Trowsers he appears,
A comely Person for his Years)
And clean white Draw'rs, that many a day
In Lavender, and Rose-Cakes lay.
A-cross his brawny Shoulders strung,
On his left side his Dagger hung;
Dead-doing Blade! a dreadful Guest,
Or in the Field, or at the Feast.
No Franklin carving of a Chine
At Christide, ever look'd so fine.
With him obsequious Rover trudg'd,
Nor from his Heels one moment budg'd:
A while they travell'd, when within
Poor Lobb perceiv'd a rumbling Din:
Then warring Winds for want of vent,
Shook all his earthly Tenement.
So in the Body Politick,
(For States sometimes, like Men, are sick)
Dark Faction mutters thro' the Croud,
E'er bare-fac'd Treason roars aloud:
Whether crude Humours undigested,
His lab'ring Entrails had infested,
Or last Night's Load of bottled Ale,
Grown mutinous, was breaking Jayl:
The Cause of this his aukward Pain,
Let J---nst---on, or let H---th explain;
Whose learned Noses may discover,
Why Nature's Stink-Pot thus ran over.
My Province is th' Effect to trace,
And give each Point its proper Grace,
Th' Effect, O lamentable Case!
Long had he struggled, but in vain,
The Factious Tumult to restrain:
What shou'd he do? the unruly Rout
Press'd on, and it was time, no doubt,
T'unbutton, and to let all out.
The Trowsers soon his Will obey,
Not so his stubborn Drawers, for they
Beneath his hanging Paunch close ty'd,
His utmost Art, and Pains defy'd:
He drew his Dagger on the Spot,
Resolv'd to cut the Gordian Knot.
In the same Road just then pass'd by
(Such was the Will of Destiny)
The courteous Curate of the Place,
Good-Nature shone o'er all his Face;
Surpriz'd the flaming Blade to view,
And deeming Slaughter must ensue,
Off from his Hack himself he threw.
Then without Ceremony seiz'd
The Squire, impatient to be eas'd.
Lord! Master Lobb, who wou'd have thought
The Fiend had e'er so strongly wrought?
Is Suicide so slight a Fault?
Rip up thy Guts, Man! What—go quick
To Hell? outrageous Lunatick!
But—by the Blessing, I'll prevent
With this right Hand, thy foul Intent;
Then gripe'd the Dagger fast: the Squire
Like Peleus' Son look'd pale with Ire;
While the good Man like Pallas stood;
And check'd his eager Thirst for Blood.
At last, when both a while had strain'd,
Strength, join'd with Zeal, the Conquest gain'd.
The Curate in all Points obey'd,
Into the Sheath returns the Blade:
But first th' unhappy Squire he swore,
T'attempt upon his Life no more.
With sage Advice his Speech he clos'd,
And left him (as he thought) compos'd.
But was it so, Friend Lobb? I own
Misfortune seldom comes alone;
Satan supplies the swelling Tide,
And Ills on Ills are multiply'd.
Subdu'd, and all his Measures broke,
His Purpose and Intent mistook;
Within his Draw'rs, alas! he found
His Guts let out without a Wound:
For, in the Conflict, straining hard,
He left his Postern Gate unbarr'd;
Most wofully bedawb'd, he moans
His piteous Case, he sighs, he groans.
To lose his Dinner, and return,
Was very hard, not to be born:
Hunger (they say) Parent of Arts,
Will make a Fool a Man of Parts.
The sharp-set Squire resolves at last,
Whate'er befel him not to fast;
He mus'd a while, chaf'd, strain'd his Wits,
At last on this Expedient hits,
To the next Brook with sober pace
He tends, preparing to uncase,
Straddling, and mutt'ring all the way,
Curs'd inwardly th' unlucky Day.
The Coast now clear, no Soul in view,
Off in a trice his Trowsers drew;
More leisurely his Draw'rs, for Care
And Caution was convenient there:
So fast the plaister'd Birdlime stuck,
The Skin came off with ev'ry pluck.
Sorely he gaul'd each brauny Ham,
Nor other Parts escap'd, which Shame
Forbids a bashful Muse to name.
Not without pain the Work atchiev'd,
He scrub'd, and wash'd, the Parts aggriev'd;
Then with nice Hand, and Look sedate,
Folds up his Draw'rs, with their rich Fraight,
And hides them in a Bush, at leisure
Resolv'd to fetch his hidden Treasure:
The trusty Rover lay hard by,
Observing all with curious Eye.

Now rigg'd again, once more a Beau,
And Matters fix'd in statu quo,
Brisk as a Snake in merry May,
That just has cast his Slough away,
Gladsome he caper'd o'er the Green,
As he presum'd, both sweet and clean;
For oh! amongst us Mortal Elves,
How few there are smell out themselves?
With a Mole's Ear, and Eagle's Eye,
And with a Blood-hound's Nose, we fly
On others Faults implacably.
But where's that Ear, that Eye, that Nose,
Against its Master will depose?
Ruddy Miss Pru. with Golden Hair,
Stinks like a Pole-cat, or a Bear,
Yet romps about me ev'ry day,
Sweeter, she thinks, than new-made Hay.
Lord Plausible, at Tom's, and Will's,
Whose poisonous Breath in Whispers kills,
Still buzzes in my Ear, nor knows
What fatal Secrets he bestows.
Let him destroy each Day a score,
'Tis meer Chance-medly, and no more:
In fine, Self-love bribes ev'ry Sense,
And all at home is Excellence.

The Squire arriv'd in decent Plight,
With Rev'rence due salutes the Knight;
Compliments past, the Dinner Bell
Rung quick and loud, harmonious Knell
To greedy Lobb. Th' Orphean Lyre
Did ne'er such rapt'rous Joy inspire;
Tho' this the savage Throng obey,
That Hunger tames more fierce than they.
In comely Order now appear,
The Footmen loaded with good Chear,
Her Ladyship brought up the Rear:
Simpering she lisps, Your Servant, Sir—
The Ways are bad, one can't well stir
Abroad—or 'twere indeed unkind
To leave good Mrs. Lobb behind—
She's well I hope—Master, they say,
Comes on apace—How's Miss, I pray?
Lobb bow'd, and cring'd, and mutt'ring low,
Made for his Chair, wou'd fain fall to.
These weighty Points adjusted, soon
My Lady brandishes her Spoon.
Unhappy Lobb, pleas'd with his Treat,
And minding nothing but his Meat,
Too near the Fire, had chose his Seat:
When oh! th' Effluviums of his Bum
Begin amain to scent the Room,
Ambrosial Sweets, and rich Perfume.
The flick'ring Footman stop'd his Nose,
The Chaplain too, under the Rose,
Made aukward Mouths. The Knight took Snuff,
Her Ladyship began to huff;
“Indeed Sir John—pray good my Dear—
“'Tis wrong to make your Kennel here—
“Dogs in their place are good I own—
“But in the Parlour—foh!—be gone.

Now Rockwood leaves th' unfinish'd Bone,
Banish'd for Failings not his own;
No Grace ev'n Fidler cou'd obtain,
And Favourite Virgin fawn'd in vain.
The Servants to the Stranger kind,
Leave trusty Rover still behind;
But Lobb, who would not seem to be
Defective in Civility,
And for removing of all doubt,
Knitting his Brows, bids him get out:
By Signs expresses his Command,
And to the Door points with his Hand.
The Dog, or thro' mistake, or spight,
(Grave Authors have not set us right)
Fled back the very way he came,
And in the Bush soon found his Game;
Brought in his Mouth the sav'ry Load,
And at his Master's Elbow stood.
O Lobb, what Idioms can express,
Thy strange Confusion and Distress,
When on the Floor, the Draw'rs display'd,
The fulsome Secret had bewray'd?
No Traitor when his Hand and Seal
Produc'd, his dark Designs reveal,
E'er look'd with such a hanging Face,
As Lobb half-dead at this Disgrace.
Wild-staring, Thunder-struck, and Dumb,
While Peals of Laughter shake the Room;
Each Sash thrown up, to let in Air,
The Knight fell backward in his Chair,
Laugh'd till his Heart-strings almost break,
The Chaplain giggled for a Week;
Her Ladyship began to call,
For Hartshorn, and her Abigal;
The Servants chuckled at the Door,
And all was Clamour and Uproar.
Rover, who now began to quake,
As conscious of his foul Mistake,
Trusts to his Heels to save his Life;
The Squire sneaks home, and beats his Wife.