I hate the shrugging dogs,
I've lived among them, ate their frogs.
Trelawne, her course 'mid cousins run,
Shall weep for many a first-born son,
Speak, Muse, who formed that matchless head,
The Cornish Boy, in tin mines bred;
Whose native genius, like diamonds shone
In secret, till chance gave him to the sun?
'Tis Jackson's portrait—put the laurel on it.
And now, O Muse, with song so big,
Turn round to Gainsborough's Girl and Pig,
Or Pig and Girl I rather should have said;
The pig is white, I must allow,
Is really a well-painted sow:
I wish to say the same thing of the maid.
To Whitbread now deigned Majesty to say,
"Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay?"
"Yes, please your Majesty"—in humble notes,
The Brewer answer'd—"also, Sir, of oats;
Another thing my horses too maintains,
And that, an't please your Majesty, are grains."
"Grains, grains," said Majesty, "To fill their crops?
Grains? Grains?—that come from hops—yes, hops, hops, hops?"
Here was the King, like hounds sometimes at fault—
"Sire" cry'd the humble Brewer, "give me leave
Your sacred Majesty to undeceive:
Grains, Sire, are never made from hops, but malt."
"True," said the cautious Monarch, with a smile;
"From malt, malt, malt—I meant it all the while."
"Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the Brewer.
"An't please your Majesty, you did I'm sure."
"Yes," answered Majesty, with quick reply,
"I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I."
E'en with his painter let the King be blest;
Egad! eat, drink, and sleep, with Mister West.
Wanting to drink—one of the men
Dipp'd from the bowl the drunken host,
And drank—then taking care that none were lost,
He put in ev'ry mother's son agen.
Up jump'd the bacchanalian crew on this,
Taking it very much amiss—
Swearing, and in the attitude to smite:
"Lord!" cry'd the man with gravely lifted eyes,
"Though I don't like to swallow flies,
I did not know but others might."
Now meend me, Nan! all Ex'ter town
Was gapin', rennin' up and down,
Vath, just leek vokes bewitch'd!
Lord! how they laugh'd to zee the King;
To hear un zay zum marv'lous thing!
Leek mangy dogs they itch'd.
Leek bullocks sting'd by appledranes (wasps),
Currantin' it about the lanes,
Vokes theese way dreav'd and that;
Zum hootin', swearin', scraimin', bawlin'!
Zum in the muck, and pellum (dust) sprawlin';
Leek pancakes all zo flat.
And zoon beginn'd to speak;
Zo zaid, "Neat, neat—clean, very clean;
D'ye mop it, mop it Measter Dean;
Mop, mop it every week?
Wipin' his zweatty jaws and poull
All over dust we spy'd Squire Rolle,
Close by the King's coach trattin':
Now shovin' in the coach his head,
Meaning, we giss'd, it might be zed,
The Squire and King be chattin'.
Now goed the Aldermen and May'r,
Zum wey cropp'd wigs, and zum wey hair,
The Royal Yoke to ken;
When Measter May'r, upon my word,
Pok'd to the King a gert long sword,
Which he pok'd back agen.
But this a did—now this was kind—
Knowin' the people's longing mind,
And being pretty tall,
A stude 'pon tiptoes, it is zed;
And, condescending pok'd his head
Over the Bishop's wall.
Zum of the Ex'ter vokes suppose
They plainly zeed his royal nose,
And zum his royal eyes;
And, Lord! whatever peart they zeed,
In this they one and all agreed,
'Twas glorious, gert, and wize.
Theeze once I've made myzelf a vool
And now I feel my courage cool
For zeeing Royal things;
And whan my Bible next I read,—
Zo leet I worship all the breed,
I'll skep the Book of Kings.
Hearing no news of nimble Mister Stag,
He sits like Patience grinning on his nag.
Thus, wisdom-fraught, his curious eye-balls ken
The little hovels that around him rise:
To these he trots—of hogs surveys the styes,
And nicely numbers every cock and hen.
Then asks the farmer's wife or farmer's maid,
How many eggs the fowls have laid.
What's in the oven—in the pot—the crock;
Whether 'twill rain or no, and what's o'clock.
Thus from poor hovels gleaning information,
To serve as future treasure for the nation.
There, terrier-like, till pages find him out,
He pokes his most sagacious nose about;
And scenes in Paradise—like that so fam'd;
Looking like Adam too, and Eve so fair;
Sweet simpletons! who, though so bare,
Were (says the Bible) not asham'd.
No man binds books so well as George the Third.
By thirst of leather glory spurr'd,
At bookbinders he oft is seen to laugh—
And wond'rous is the King in sheep or calf!
But see! the Prince upon such labour looks
Fastidious down, and only readeth books.
Here by the Sire the son is much surpast;
Which fame should publish on her loudest blast I
The King beats Monmouth-street in cast-off riches;
That is, in coats, and waistcoats, and in breeches;
Which, draughted once a year for foreign stations,
Make fine recruits to serve some near relations.
But lo! the Prince, shame on him ! never dreams
Of petty Jewish, economic schemes!
So very proud (I'm griev'd, O Tom, to tell it)
He'd rather give a coat away than sell it!
Fair justice to the Monarch must allow
Prodigious science in a calf or cow;
And wisdom in an article of swine.
What most unusual knowledge for a King!
Because pig-wisdom is a thing
In which no Sov'reign e'er were known to shine.
Yet who 'will think I am not telling fibs?
The Prince, who Britain's throne in time shall grace,
Ne'er finger’d, at a fair, a bullock's ribs,
Nor even ogled a pig's face!
O dire disgrace! O let it not be known
That thus a Father hath excell'd a Son.
O dry that tear, so round and big;
Nor waste in sighs your precious wind!
Death only takes a single Pig—
Your lord and son are still behind.
Lo, here the reptile! who from some dark cell,
Where all his veins in the native poison swell,
Crawls forth a slimy toad, and spits and spews
The crude abortions of his loathsome muse
On all that genius, all that worth holds dear—
Unsullied rank, and piety sincere.
******Lo, here the brutal sot! who drench'd with gin,
Lashes his wither'd nerves to tasteless sin;
Squeals out (with oaths and blasphemies between)
The impious song 1 , the tale, the jest obscene;
And careless views, amidst the barbarous roar,
His few grey hairs strew, one by one, the floor.
******Oh! check, a moment check, the obstreperous din
Of guilty joy, and hear the voice within;
The small, still voice of Conscience, hear it cry:
An atheist thou mayst live, but canst not die.
******For me—why shouldst thou with abortive toil,
Waste the poor remnant of thy spluttering oil
In filth and falsehood? Ignorant and absurd!
Pause from thy pains, and take my closing word;
Thou canst not think, nor have I power to tell,
How much I scorn and loathe thee—so—Farewell.
O Love! for heaven's sake, never leave my heart;
No! thou and I will never, never part:
Go, Wedlock, to the men of leaden brains,
Who hate variety, and sigh for chains.
The old shepherd's dog, like his master, was gray;
His teeth all departed, and feeble his tongue;
Yet where'er Colin went, he was follow'd by Tray.
Thus happy through life did they hobble along.
When fatigued on the grass the shepherd would lie
For a nap in the sun, 'midst his slumbers so sweet,
His faithful companion crawl'd constantly nigh,
Placed his head on his lap, and lay down at his feet.
When winter was heard on the hill and the plain,
And torrents descended, and cold was the wind,
If Colin went forth 'midst the tempests and rain,
Tray scorned to be left in the chimney behind.
At length in the straw Tray made his last bed;
For vain, against death, is the stoutest endeavour—
To lick Colin's hand he rear'd up his weak head,
Then fell back, clos'd his eyes, and, ah! clos'd them for ever.
Not long after Tray did the Shepherd remain,
Who oft o'er his grave with true sorrow would bend;
And, when dying, thus feebly was heard the poor swain,
"Oh bury me, neighbours, beside my old friend."