THE DUKE OF RICHMOND's DOG THUNDER,
AND THE WIDOW's PIG.
The Widow's whole Fortune lodged in the Sow.
—Her Joy on the Sow's lying-in.—The Duke's
Dog Thunder much like Courtiers.—Thunder
killeth the young Pigs, yet surpasseth Courtiers
in Modesty.—The Sow crieth out.—The Widow
joineth the Sow in her Exclamations.—The
old Steward cometh forth at the Cry of the Sow
and Widow, and uttereth a most pathetic Exclamation.
—A sensible Dissertation on the different
Species of Compassion.—The Widow's
piteous Address to his Grace.—His Grace's humane
and generous Answer to the Widow.
A dame near Goodwood own'd a sow, her all,
Which nat'rally did into travail fall,
And brought forth many a comely son and daughter;
On which the widow wondrously was glad,
Caper'd and sung, as really she were mad—
But tears oft hang upon the heels of laughter.
At Goodwood dwelt the duke's great dog, call'd Thunder,
A dog, like courtiers, much inclin'd to plunder;
This dog, with courtier-jealousy so bitter,
Beheld the sweetly-snuffling sportive litter.
Bounce! without ‘by your leave,’ or least harangue,
Upon this harmless litter, Thunder sprang,
And murder'd brothers, sisters, quick as thought;
Then sneak'd away, his tail between his rear,
Seeming asham'd—unlike great courtiers here,
Who (Fame reporteth) are asham'd of nought.
The childless sow set up a shriek so loud!
All her sweet babies ready for the shroud;
Now chas'd the rogue that such sad mischief work'd;
Out ran the dame—join'd Mistress Sow's shrill cries;
Burst was at once the bag that held her sighs,
And all the bottles of her tears uncork'd.
‘Oh! the duke's dog has ruin'd me outright;
Oh! he hath murder'd all my pretty pigs.’
Forth march'd the steward, grey, with lifted sight,
And lifted hands, good man, and cry'd ‘Odsnigs!’
Word of surprise! which, with a plaintive tone,
And rueful countenance, and hollow groan,
Did seem like pity also, for her case:
Yet what's odsnigs, or moan, or groan, or sighs,
Unhelp'd, by Famine if the object dies?
Or what a yard of methodistic face?
Compassions differ very much, we find!
One deals in sighs—now sighs are merely wind:
Another only good advice affords,
Instead of alms—now this is only words:
Another cannot bear to see the poor;
So orders the pale beggar from the door.
Now that compassion is the best, I think
(But, ah! the human soul it rarely graces),
Instead of groans, which giveth meat and drink;
Off'ring long purses too, instead of faces.
But, muse, we drop dog, duke, and sow, and dame,
To follow an old pitiful remark;
Like wanton spaniels that desert the game,
To yelp and course a butterfly or lark.
Now to his Grace the howling widow goes,
Wiping her eyes so red, and flowing nose.
‘Oh! please your Grace, your Grace's dev'lish dog,
Thunder's confounded wicked chops
Have murder'd all my beauteous hopes—
I hope your Grace will pay for ev'ry hog.’
What answer gave his Graee?—With placid brow,
‘Don't cry,’ quoth he, ‘and make so much foul weather—
Go home, dame; and when thunder eats the sow,
I'll pay for all the family together.’
