The Poetical Works of Horace Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

At Neufchâtel, in France, where they prepare
Cheeses that set us longing to be Mites,
There dwelt a farmer's wife, famed for her rare
Skill in these small quadrangular delights.—
Where they were made, they sold for the immense
Price of three sous a-piece;
But as salt water made their charms increase,
In England the fix'd rate was eighteen-pence.

This damsel had to help her in the farm,
To milk her cows, and feed her hogs,
A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm
For digging, or for carrying logs;

But in his noddle weak as any baby,
In fact a gaby,
And such a glutton when you came to feed him,
That Wantley's dragon, who “ate barns and churches,
As if they were geese and turkeys,”
(Vide the Ballad,) scarcely could exceed him.

One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl
Of cream, like nectar,
And wouldn't go to Church (good careful soul!)
Till she had left it safe with a protector;
So she gave strict injunctions to the Gascon
To watch it while his mistress was to mass gone.—

Watch it he did—he never took his eyes off,
But lick'd his upper, then his under lip,
And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off,
Begrudging them the smallest sip,
Which if they got,

Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh,
And cried,—“O happy, happy fly,
How I do envy you your lot!”

Each moment did his appetite grow stronger;
His bowels yearn'd;
At length he could not bear it any longer,
But on all sides his looks he turn'd,
And finding that the coast was clear, he quaff'd
The whole up at a draught.—
Scudding from church, the farmer's wife
Flew to the dairy;
But stood aghast, and could not, for her life
One sentence utter,
Until she summon'd breath enough to mutter,
“Holy St. Mary!”
And shortly, with a face of scarlet,
The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew
Upon the varlet,

Asking the when, and where, and how, and who
Had gulp'd her cream, nor left an atom;
To which he gave not separate replies,
But with a look of excellent digestion,
One answer made to every question,
“The Flies!”

“The flies, you rogue! the flies, you guzzling dog!
Behold your whiskers still are covered thickly;
Thief,—liar,—villain,—gormandizer,—hog!
I'll make you tell another story quickly.”
So out she bounced, and brought, with loud alarms,
Two stout Gens-d'armes,
Who bore him to the judge,—a little prig,
With angry bottle nose
Like a red cabbage rose,
While lots of white ones flourished on his wig.—
Looking at once both stern and wise,
He turn'd to the delinquent,

And 'gan to question him and catechise
As to which way the drink went:
Still the same dogged answers rise,
“The flies, my Lord—the flies, the flies!”

“Psha!” quoth the judge, half peevish and half pompous,
“Why, you're non compos.
You should have watch'd the bowl as she desired,
And kill'd the flies, you stupid clown.”
“What, is it lawful then,” the dolt enquired,
“To kill the flies in this here town?”—
“The man's an ass! a pretty question this!
Lawful, you booby? to be sure it is.—
You've my authority, whene'er you meet 'em
To kill the rogues, and if you like it, eat 'em.”
“Zooks!” cried the rustic, “I'm right glad to hear it.
Constable, catch that thief! may I go hang
If yonder blue-bottle, (I know his face,)
Isn't the very leader of the gang

That stole the cream, let me come near it!”
This said, he started from his place,
And aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows
At a large fly upon the Judge's nose,
The luckless blue-bottle he smash'd,
And gratified a double grudge,
For the same catapult completely smash'd
The bottle-nose belonging to the Judge!