A knight of powder-horn and shot
Once filled his bag—as I would not,
Unless the feelings of my breast
By poverty were sorely pressed—
With birds and squirrels for the spits
Of certain gormandizing cits.
With merry heart the fellow went
Direct to Mr. Centpercent,
Who loved, as well was understood,
Whatever game was nice and good.
This gentleman, with knowing air,
Surveyed the dainty lot with care,
Pronounced it racy, rich, and rare,
And called his wife, to know her wishes
About its purchase for their dishes.
The lady thought the creatures prime,
And for their dinner just in time;
So sweet they were, and delicate.
For dinner she could hardly wait.
But now there came—could luck be worse?—
Just as the buyer drew his purse,
A bulky fly, with solemn buzz,
And smelt, as an inspector does.
This bird and that, and said the meat—
But here his words I won't repeat—
Was anything but fit to eat.
'Ah!' cried the lady, 'there's a fly
I never knew to tell a lie;
His coat, you see, is bottle-green;
He knows a thing or two, I ween.
My dear, I beg you, do not buy;
Such game as this may suit the dogs.'
So on our peddling sportsman jogs,
His soul possessed of this surmise,
About some men, as well as flies:
A filthy taint they soonest find
Who are to relish filth inclined.
THE DOG AND CAT.
A dog and cat, messmates for life,
Were often falling into strife,
Which came to scratching, growls, and snaps
And spitting in the face, perhaps.
A neighbour dog once chanced to call
Just at the outset of their brawl.
And, thinking Tray was cross and cruel,
To snarl so sharp at Mrs. Mew-well,
Growled rather roughly in his ear.
'And who are you to interfere?'
Exclaimed the cat, while in his face she flew;
And, as was wise, he suddenly withdrew.
It seems, in spite of all his snarling.
And hers, that Tray was still her darling.
THE GOLDEN PITCHER.
A father once, whose sons were two,
For each a gift had much ado.
At last upon this course he fell;
'My sons,' said he, 'within our well
Two treasures lodge, as I am told:
The one a sunken piece of gold,—
A bowl it may be, or a pitcher;
The other is a thing far richer.
These treasures if you can but find.
Each may be suited to his mind;
For both are precious in their kind.
To gain the one you'll need a hook;
The other will but cost a look.
But oh, of this, I pray, beware!
You who may choose the tempting share,
Too eager fishing for the pitcher
May ruin that which is far richer.'
Out ran the boys, their gifts to draw;
But eagerness was checked with awe.
How could there be a richer prize
Than solid gold beneath the skies?
Or, if there could, how could it dwell
Within their own old mossy well?—
Were questions which excited wonder,
And kept their headlong av'rice under.
The golden cup each feared to choose,
Lest he the better gift should lose;
And so resolved our prudent pair,
The gifts in common they would share.
The well was open to the sky.
As o'er its curb they keenly pry,
It seems a tunnel piercing through,
From sky to sky, from blue to blue;
And, at its nether mouth, each sees
A brace of their antipodes,
With earnest faces peering up,
As if themselves might seek the cup.
'Ha!' said the elder, with a laugh,
'We need not share it by the half.
The mystery is clear to me:
That richer gift to all is free.
Be only as that water true,
And then the whole belongs to you.'
That truth itself was worth so much,
It cannot be supposed that such
A pair of lads were satisfied;
And yet they were before they died.
But whether they fished up the gold,
I 'm sure I never have been told.
Thus much they learned, I take for granted, —
And that was what their father wanted.mw-parser-output .nowrap,.mw-parser-output .nowrap a:before,.mw-parser-output .nowrap .selflink:before{white-space:nowrap}. . . .
If truth for wealth we sacrifice.
We throw away the richer prize.
PARTY STRIFE.
Among the beasts a feud arose.
The lion, as the story goes,
Once on a time laid down
His sceptre and his crown;
And in his stead the beasts elected.
As often as it suited them,
A sort of king pro tem.,—
Some animal they much respected.
At first they all concurred.
The horse, the stag, the unicorn,
Were chosen each in turn;
And then the noble bird
That looks undazzled at the sun.
But party strife began to run
Through burrow, den, and herd.
Some beasts proposed the patient ox,
And others named the cunning fox.
The quarrel came to bites and knocks;
Nor was it duly settled
Till many a beast high-mettled
Had bought an aching head,
Or, possibly, had bled.
The fox, as one might well suppose,
At last above his rival rose;
But, truth to say, his reign was bootless,
Of honour being rather fruitless.
All prudent beasts began to see
The throne a certain charm had lost,
And, won by strife, as it must be,
Was hardly worth the pains it cost.
So when his majesty retired,
Few worthy beasts his seat desired.
Especially now stood aloof
The wise of head, the swift of hoof,
The beasts whose breasts were battle-proof.
It consequently came to pass.
Not first, but, as we say, in fine,
For king the creatures chose the ass,—
He, for prime minister the swine.
’Tis thus that party spirit
Is prone to banish merit.
THE CAT AND THE THRUSH.
A Thrush that sang one rustic ode
Once made a garden his abode,
And gave the owner such delight,
He grew a special favourite.
Indeed, his landlord did his best
To make him safe from every foe;
The ground about his lowly nest
Was undisturbed by spade or hoe.
And yet his song was still the same;
It even grew somewhat more tame.
At length Grimalkin spied the pet,
Resolved that he should suffer yet,
And laid his plan of devastation
So as to save his reputation;
For, in the house, from looks demure
He passed for honest, kind, and pure.
Professing search of mice and moles,
He through the garden daily strolls,
And never seeks our thrush to catch;
But when his consort comes to hatch,
Just eats the young ones in a batch.
The sadness of the pair bereaved
Their generous guardian sorely grieved.
But yet it could not be believed
His faithful cat was in the wrong,
Though so the thrush said in his song.
The cat was therefore favoured still
To walk the garden at his will;
And hence the birds, to shun the pest,
Upon a pear-tree built their nest.
Though there it cost them vastly more,
'T was vastly better than before.
And Gaffer Thrush directly found
His throat, when raised above the ground,
Gave forth a softer, sweeter sound.
New tunes, moreover, he had caught,
By perils and afflictions taught,
And found new things to sing about:
New scenes had brought new talents out.
So, while, improved beyond a doubt,
His own old song more clearly rang,
Far better than themselves he sang
The chants and trills of other birds;
He even mocked Grimalkin's words
With such delightful humour that
He gained the Christian name of Cat.
Let Genius tell, in verse and prose,
How much to praise and friends it owes.
Good sense may be, as I suppose,
As much indebted to its foes.