Poems on Affairs of State

How fleet is Air! How many things have Breath,
Which in a moment they resign to Death;
Depriv'd of Light, and all their happiest State,
Not by their Fault, but some o'er-ruling Fate!
Altho fair Flowers, that justly might invite,
Are cropt, nay torn away for Man's Delight;
Yet still those Flowers, alas, can make no Moan,
Nor has Narcissus now a Power to groan.
But all those things which breathe in different Frame,
By Tye of common Breath Man's Pity claim.
A Gentle Lamb has Rhetorick to plead,
And when she sees the Butcher's Knife decreed,
Her Voice entreats him not to make her bleed;
But cruel Gains, and Luxury of Taste,
With Pride, still lays Man's Fellow Mortals waste:
What Earth and Waters breed, or Air inspires,
Man for his Palate sits by torturing Fires.

Mully, a Cow sprung from a Beauteous Race,
With spreading Front did Mountown's Pastures grace.
Gentle she was, and with a gentle Stream,
Each Morn and Night gave Milk that equal'd Cream.

Offending None, of None she stood in Dread,
Much less of Persons which she daily fed:
But Innocence cannot it self defend
'Gainst Treacherous Arts vail'd with the Name of Friend.

Robin of Derbyshire, whose Temper shocks
The Constitution of his Native Rocks,
Born in a Place, which if it once be nam'd,
Wou'd make a Blushing Modesty asham'd:
He with Indulgence kindly did appear,
To make poor Mully his peculiar Care.
But inwardly this sullen churlish Thief
Had all his Mind plac'd upon Mully's Beef:
His Fancy fed on her, and thus he'd cry,
Mully, as sure as I'm alive you die;
'Tis a brave Cow, O Sirs when Christmas comes,
These Shins shall make the Porridge grac'd with Plumbs.
Then midst our Cups, while we profusely Dine,
This Blade shall enter deep in Mully's Chine:
What Ribs, what Rumps, what Bak'd, Boil'd, Stew'd, and Roast?
There shan't a single Tripe of her be lost.

When Peggy, Nymph of Mountown, heard these Sounds,
She griev'd to hear of Mully's future Wounds:
What Crime, says she, has gentle Mully done?
Witness the Rising and the Setting Sun,
That knows what Milk she constantly would give;
Let that quench Robin's Rage, and Mully live.

Daniel, a Sprightly Swain, that us'd to slash
The vigorous Steeds that drew his Lord's Calash,
To Peggy's side inclin'd; for 'twas well known
How well he lov'd those Cattle of his own.
Then Terence spoke oraculous and sly,
He'd neither grant the Question, or deny;
Pleading for Milk, his Thoughts were on Mince-Pye.
But all his Arguments so dubious were,
That Mully thence had neither Hopes nor Fear.

You've spoke, says Robin, but now let me tell ye
'Tis not fair-spoken Words that fill the Belly;
Pudding and Beef I love, and cannot stoop
To recommend your Bonny-Clapper Soop;
You say she's innocent, but what of that?
'Tis more than Crime sufficient that she's Fat;
And that which is prevailing in this Case,
Is, there's another Cow to fill her Place.
And granting Mully to have Milk in store,
Yet still this other Cow will give us more;
She dies—stop here my Muse, forbear the rest,
And vail that Grief which cannot be exprest.

The Devil's Arse of Peak.

University of Virginia Library

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