Poems on several occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Wealthy Farmer in the West,
With Life's Enjoyments amply blest,
A Man esteem'd both far and near,
Who in his House kept—special Beer!
Twelve Children eke around his Table;
All lusty, lively, brisk and able.

He carried wondrous well his Age,
His Wife was Housewifely and Sage;
They throve, and pick'd up Wealth apace,
And none of them at Church took place.

Two Mastiff Dogs he kept, to guard
His House, his Poultry, and his Yard:
Whose hungry Paunches well he fill'd,
With Offal from the Meat he kill'd:
All sleek they were, and in good case,
Which shew'd the Plenty of the Place.

But in the House they durst not enter,
My Dame her Crock'ry would not venture;
For she had Tea-Table, and China,
And held her Head as high as any:
Her House was kept too nice and neat
For Dogs to traipse with dirty Feet.

Full many Years these Currs were quiet,
Nor grumbled at their Bounds or Diet,
Would bark at Beggar or at Stranger,
And make much Noise at little Danger;
But, to the Comers to and fro,
No Marks of Surliness they'd shew.

A Hound the Farmer had beside,
A Hound! His Hearts delight and Pride;
Peerless he was of all his Kind,
So fleet! he would out-strip the Wind,
The best that ever follow'd Game;
Frolick he was, and Fly his Name.

Caress'd and lov'd by ev'ry Soul,
He rang'd the House without Controul;
This made the angry Mastiffs jealous,
Fly should be rais'd above his Fellows.

Keep his Nose warm, and lick the Plates,
While they stood shiv'ring at the Gates.

They grudge each Bit that goes beside 'em,
And vow Revenge whate'er betide 'em;
At last, so wond'rous curst they grew,
At Friend and Foe they fiercely flew.

These ugly Currs kept such a Rout,
No Mortal durst stir in or out;
To quell their Rage their Master try'd,
But they his Threats and Him defy'd:
Nor would their Fury be abated,
They bark'd the more, the more he rated;
And made such a confounded Din,
For quiet sake he let 'em in:
For why, their Noise disturb'd the Head
Of my good Dame, now sick in bed.

No sooner was the Wicket ope,
But both into the Kitchen crope,
Wagging their Tails, all tame and mild,
As harmless Lamb, or sucking Child.

These Currs, who were so fierce before,
Now crouch and wriggle on the Floor;
Fawn at the very Servants Feet,
And tremble, lest they should be beat.

They next traverse the Kitchen round,
To see what Prog is to be found;
Where, having fed to heart's desire,
They stretch'd themselves before the Fire;
Content and snug they lay 'till broad day light,
The House was still, my Dame slept well that Night.

MORAL.

Thus fares it with the Discontented Race,
Who envy Others, when in Pow'r and Place;
They Rail, they Write, they Plot, but all the Rout
Is not for who is in, but—who is out:
Let 'em but have a finger in the Pye,
They change their Tone, and give themselves the Lye.