The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston ::

One story, as my great grandmother
Was wont to say, brings in another;
So, gentle folks, before I leave you,
One story more I mean to give you,
Which I shall very soon discuss;
Then hearken, Sirs, it follow thus;

An honest Man once had a Mare,
Right well equipp'd with riding gear,
Well fed, and sleek like any plum
The fiend a lirk was in her bum,
The master, when he did bestride her,
Was careful softly still to ride her.
Much pampering is oft pernicious;
So prov'd it here, the jade turn'd vicious.
Now she begins to play her tricks,
And farting full, she spurns and kicks;
But too well fed, and kept too idle,
Turns restive, and resists the bridle;

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And waxing wild she quite disdains
Her master's government and reins,
And off she gallops from the manger:
By comes a little sneaking Stranger,
And jumps into the empty saddle,
Which he had long'd for from the cradle.

He was a trooper to his trade,
But fiend a groat by it he made;
And tho' most desperately stout,
He seldom miss'd to get a clout,
In every fray came off with loss,
And still return'd by weeping-cross.
When he had gallop'd thro' the town
And country too, this mad dragoon,
Well graithed in his martial gear,
And mounted on his stolen mare,
Like errant knight away he wanders,
To push his fortune into Flanders.
To tell you how the knight was maul'd,
And how the mare was all spur-gall'd,
And jaded, till she turn'd so thin,
The bones appeared thro' her skin,
Would be a melancholly story.
The knight still rode to find the glory
Which he had lost the year before,
Till the poor mare could ride no more:
But after many battles fought,
Where, save some blows, the knight gain'd nought,
No, not so much in many a year,
As would have once well corn'd the mare,
Or greas'd his boots, or soal'd his hose,
Or bought a plaister to his nose;
There's one thing I must not neglect
To tell you, that he broke his neck.

And then it was a certain lady,
Mounted the mare, which to her daddy

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Belong'd, and after him none other
Had right to ride her but her brother.

Then after her, a hum-drum clown,
Adorn'd with Capricornus' crown,
And with a Scaramouch's phiz,
Pretends, forsooth, the mare was his,
(Because the rogue, who caught her straying,
Bequeath'd the mare, when he was dying,
Knowing he had no heir to bruik her,
To Mynheer Corniger, who took her
As his just right; for why, said he,
Accepi hanc, non rapui;
'Tis true, but each good man believes,
Resets to be as bad as thieves);
And tumbling gets into the saddle,
But then, his head-piece being addle,
With laughter you would split your sides,
To see how aukwardly he rides;
If she but trot, then he must gabble,
Make a grimace, and cry, Diuble.
Up comes a servant, takes the reins,
And thus accosts Don Rattlebrains,
Allow me, Sir, the mare to lead,
Smoke you your pipe, ne'er fash your head
About the reins, leave that to me,
I'll manage them. Says he, Ouy.
There is a proverb. I have heard it,
“A fidging mare should be well girded.”
Mynheer, then know you how to guide her:
Je ne scai pas, replies the rider.
I'll whistle in her ear a song,
Will make her calm. Quoth Quixotte, Bon;
We'll toil her hard, and keep her lean.
Quoth he, I know, Sir, what you mean;
Tho' she be skittish this will tame her.
Ouy, quoth he, for I pray, damn her.

His Wife had brought him forth a son,
Just such a thing as Phaeton,

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A strange fantastick Gilligapous,
Begot by Seignior Priapus;
A knight well known by his large balop,
Much long'd this spark the mare to gallop:
But old Don Quixotte took great care,
Because he was apparent heir,
That he should never once bestride her,
Or learn the method how to ride her.
When he went to his country farm,
To ease himself of any harm,
That might befal him by much riding,
The mare he trusted to the guiding
Of grooms, who did both spur and switch her;
Young Addle-head durst never touch her.

There he, like a coarse country boor,
Would drink his bottle, take his whore:
For you must know some little strife,
Fell out betwixt him and his wife,
Which made him turn his back upon her,
By which her son had no great honour.
He'd plant potatoes, and sow turnip,
He'd geld his swine, or shear his sheep;
Sometimes at blindman's buff he'd play,
And he excell'd in making hay;
He'd sell his barley, oats and pease,
His hens and capons, butter, cheese,
And all his other country gear,
Then drink a mug of Brunswick beer,
And smoke his pipe, and crack full crouse,
And from his bosom pull a louse;
For those who labour'd in his farm,
'Gainst buggs and lice could find no charm,
The carle swell'd, and look'd as big
As bull-beef, or triumphant Whig;
Or as a Scots kirk's Moderator,
Or if you please to call't Dictator,
Because he'd got a beast to ride on,
Made up of bones, with little hide on,

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A skeleton, a Rosinante,
Strigosa valde, non ut ante;
When fat she flang like old Jeshurim,
(Were she so now she'd ne'er endure him),
A straying mare; for, be it known
To all men, she was not his own;
And therefore he took little care,
If he was well, how she did fare.

For hire to any man he'd lend her,
And many an idle errand send her;
Great burdens on her back he'd lay,
But gave her neither corn nor hay;
He'd make her draw a cart or wain,
Toil night and day to bring him gain,
And what she purchas'd by her labours,
Was given to his trusty neighbours,
Who set him first upon her back,
And were obliged, by a contract,
In saddle fix'd to keep his dowp,
When he was like to catch a cowp;
And closely by his houghs to hing,
Whene'er the mare began to fling;
Providing still that, for this task,
He gave them what they pleas'd to ask:
When they desir'd, then the poor mare
Must sweat and toil to gain the gear,
And all their errands she must post,
Poor beast, upon their proper cost;
She durst not hang an arse, nor grudge,
When they desir'd her toil and trudge;
Or, if she did, she got a lick
With whip, and was spurr'd in the quick.
Oft would Don Quixotte go a-gadding
On's mare, and try a trick at padding;
But then he never ventur'd out,
Because he was not over stout,

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Without a trusty guard du corps
Of padders, who went still before,
With grisly whiskers on their lips,
And in the purchase still went snips.
If any honest man did meet him,
(All such he hated) he would greet him
In this strange manner, Will you swear
I'm lawful owner of the mare?
No, God forbid, should he reply,
That I should swear an arrant lie,
Sans more ado he cuts his throat,
And takes his money every groat.

He made the mare great burdens carry,
And troopers o'er the water ferry;
With riding up and down opprest her,
In serving a dull thing her master,
From whence she never got a bait,
Tho' she toil'd for him ear and late.
His neighbours he allow'd to dock her,
Then in a muck-cart he did yoke her,
And there she suffer'd meikle harm
By drawing dung to his poor farm.

A gentleman, who ne'er had wrong'd him,
Nor meddled with what did belong t'him,
From whose rich meadows, every year,
Much corn and hay came to the mare,
Was cultivating his own ground,
And thinking all was safe and sound;
While he's intent upon his tillage,
And carefully repair'd his village,
And fenc'd his parks, like a good shifty
Landlord, that's honest, wise and thrifty,
Up comes Don Quixotte on his mare,
Gives him a box behind the ear;
And you must know this trick he play'd,
At the same time when he had said,

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Dear Sir, I am your very sure,
And faithful friend, de tout mon cœur,
Which proves, let him say what he can,
He did not like an honest man;
One day, perhaps, he will repent it,
For soon or late 'twill be resented.
Mean time the mare gain'd nothing by it,
She quickly found a change of diet,
As having neither corn nor straw,
Nor hay, to fill his hungry maw.

He gave himself fantastic airs,
As if he'd been above the spheres,
Of Nimrod, Pharaoh, Cham, or Cæsar,
The great Mogul, or Neb'hadnezar;
And true it is, in many a thing,
He much resembled Babel's king.
Strutting like a romantick hero,
As stout as Xerxes, mild as Nero,
He thought the neighbourhood ador'd him,
Whereas they mock'd him, and abhor'd him;
Fancy'd his will to be a law,
To keep his neighbours all in awe,
And force them into any measure
That suited his capricious pleasure;
Whether to box, when he thought fit,
Or wrestle, without fear or wit;
Or when he pleas'd to say, pax vobis,
Leave off your strife, parete nobis,
He thought his neighbours would obey him,
And ne'er a mortal would gainsay him;
Yet after all this noise and clutter,
His friends lay oft-times in the gutter.
His talent lay not in plain dealing,
Nor was he shap'd for reconciling,
And his pretended son and wife,
Know if he's good at ending strife.

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Religion for a mask he used,
By which the vulgar are amused:
For still, when rogues would cloak their knav'ry,
And draw men into fear and slav'ry,
Religion then must be pretended,
Or something in it to be mended;
Yet no religion he practised,
And never will with this be pleased,
Quid tibi fieri non vis,
Tu alteri ne feceris.
He was a chagrin'd dull curmudgeon,
Who still took every thing in dudgeon;
A braggadocio, and a bully,
And every part he acted dully;
A blust'ring huffy raggamuffin,
Whose head-piece had but little stuff-in;
Tho' fortified without the cells,
Within contain'd mere bagatelles;
And tho' a stranger to good sense,
He had a stock of impudence.
He could put on a brazen face,
And tell you with a sloven grace,
A false, unlikely, flim-flam story,
That he had wrought great wonders for ye.

A maggot had possess'd his head,
(For rotten stuff will maggots breed),
Tho' some affirm it bred not there,
But only crept in at his ear,
And finding empty room to lodge in,
Fix'd there, and after rais'd great dudgeon:
But how it bred, or in what noddle,
Or when, it matters not a boddle,
Since it is sure his head it seiz'd,
And him with strange chimeras pleas'd,

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First he resolved the Mare to feed
(which now was starv'd, and almost dead)
With dilse and tangles, which in store grow
In South-sea, tho' no man the shore knew,
And were fetch'd home, some ten times as far,
As Cape Good Hope, or Madagascar.
From regions of Utopia,
And ter' australis incognita,
In ships that floated thro' the air,
Whether the wind was cross or fair,
Without the help of masts or sails,
Or oars, or helm fixt to their tails,
To which the rudder of the rump is
In place of log-line, helm and compass;
Yet steer'd their course as right and quick,
As if the pilot were Old Nick.
The Line they'd cut, the Cape they'd double,
Floating upon an airy bubble,
And one day's space would bring a gally
From Ne'er-found-land, to Exchange-alley,
Where she expos'd this South-sea gear,
(Fine fodder for a starving Mare!)
Yet the poor hungry meagre jade,
Ate up this trash, as she'd been mad,
Which made her swell, and look as round
As if she'd been both full and sound.
But chancing to let fly behind,
A blast of something more than wind,
The rider she did all bespatter
With dung and stinking South-sea water.
At this he stood bumbaz'd and troubled,
And scrub'd and rub'd to clean his doublet.

The smallest Scots copper coin.

If any person had the courage,
To tell him to get better forage,
And of the Mare to take more care,
Quoth he, c'en n'est pas mon affair.

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Have you observ'd a bubble swell,
Which children blow up in a shell,
Of soap and spittle, how it flies,
And dazzles their attending eyes,
But when it fills them most with wonder,
The seeming something bursts asunder,
And what look'd pretty, full and fair
But erst, evanishes in air?
So, when the wind, that had been pent
Within her guts, had got a vent,
And forc'd its passage by the rump,
The Mare, who look'd both fat and plump,
And had no lirk in all her leather,
More than what's in a full blown bladder,
No sooner had the vapour past
Through postern, with a blustring blast,
Which circumambient air perfum'd,
As may be very well presum'd,
With scent that was not aromatick,
And which turn'd many heads lunatick,
And made them, in this sad conundrum,
To hang an arse, and look right humdrum,
With surly, sour, and odd grimaces,
You'd know them by their gloomy faces;
The Mare, I say, when wind got vent,
Look'd lean like butchers dogs in lent;
The South-sea ware had purg'd her so,
That she could neither stand nor go.
This backward blast and tempest, Nota
Bene, wreck'd all the South-sea Flota;
Rent all their rigging, crack'd their keels,
And kick'd up all the sailors heels,
Who, tumbling, lay in great dejection,
Without hopes of a resurrection.
The Mare was in a peck of troubles,
As having nought but dilse and bubbles

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To fill her paunch; for from her mangers
The hay was carried off by strangers;
Her strength was spent, her substance gone,
And nought remain'd but skin and bone;
To make her misery complete,
Tho' she had nothing now to eat,
More loads were heap'd upon her back,
Which made the poor beast's bones to crack.
When she was in this woful plight,
It was a mortifying sight,
To see the poor beast toss and tumble,
Bow down her head, and groan and grumble;
It would have broke a heart of stone
To hear her make her ruthful moan;
For you must know Balaam's ass
Was never in so bad a pass;
If forward she advanc'd one pace,
Destruction star'd her in the face;
If backward she essay'd to go,
It would not do, he spurr'd her so;
Nor could she turn to either hand,
Nor had she strength enough to stand;
Nor could an angel loose her tongue,
The beast was lifeless, dumb and clung;
So down she tumbled on the ground,
And, fainting, fell into a swoon:
Then heav'd her head, and gave a groan,
And seem'd to say, Ohon! ohon!
I who liv'd once at rack and manger,
'Ere I was mounted by a stranger,
Am now reduc'd to this sad pickle,
Because I foolish was and fickle,
And left my good and careful master,
I justly suffer this disaster;
Then down again she droop'd her head,
And when she seem'd to be near dead,

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And fiend a thing was in her belly,
He had the confidence to tell ye,
And that indeed with a notandum,
(Tho' most men thought he spoke at random),
Observe, quoth he, I say, the Mare
Is fatter than she was last year.
Mean time Don Quixotte, on a sudden,
Expir'd by eating too much pudding,
Ev'n in the fields, without one tear,
But many curses of the Mare;
And so the death of this old Hocus,
Made way for Jubernol Jodocus;
Whom Quixotte meant to disinherit,
Because he wanted blood and merit;
He never lov'd, nor thought him his son,
For which his mother died in prison.
But Gilligapous grip'd the Mare,
And all Don Quixotte's ill-gain'd gear;
When Rosinante he had mounted,
A doughty knight he was accounted
By some, tho' never man rode worse,
Or young child on a hobby horse;
Like hen-peck'd husband, riding the stang
He by the mane, and tail, and knees hang,
Attended with a mighty noise
Of whores, and knaves, and fools and boys;
And never being bred to riding,
Lighting, he left her to the guiding
Of Jockey Bob, a hackney rider,
And then much sorrow did betide her.
Bob was amongst the gypsies bred,
And taught the canting lying trade;
Most nicely could he pick a pocket,
Break up a door, or else unlock it,
And then would raise the hue and cry
Against some neighbour passing by.

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He drove this trade of pocket-picking,
Of juggling, lying, shamming, tricking,
To make himself his master's crony,
Who thirsted greedily for money,
To whom he dar'd not to deny it,
Whatever way he did come by it;
And when he rob'd, he kept on pay
A tribe to give a reason why,
Which oft-times prov'd, you need not doubt it,
A reason with a rag about it.
The poor beast was depriv'd of hay,
And for her draff must toil and pay;
Thus was the Mare both toil'd and starv'd,
And treated as she well deserv'd,
And worse and worse must still betide her,
Till her own rightful master ride her.
Long since a certain proverb-maker,
Who, you will grant, was no wiseaker,
'Mong many other pretty tales,
Has told us one which never fails,
‘A good man (and this is no jest)
‘Is merciful to his own beast.’
What follows must not be neglected,
‘The tender mercies of the wicked
‘Are cruel.’ Reader, now, adieu,
I know you'll grant all this is true.
I wish the Man his Mare again,
My tale is done, say you, Amen.

University of Virginia Library

TALE X.

The Man and his Mare. A TRUE ENGLISH TALE.