THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.

WHY are those tears? Why droops your
Is, then, your other husband dead?
Or does a worse disgrace betide?
Hath no one since his death apply'd?

Alas! you know the cause too well,
The salt is spilt; to me it fell.
Then, to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across,
ON FRIDAY, too! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to heav'n 'tis true!)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell.
God send my cORNISH friends be well!

Unhappy WIDOW, cease thy tears, Nor feel affliction in thy fears;

head?

Let not thy stomach be suspended

Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And, when the butler clears the table,
For thy dessert, I'll read my fable.

Betwixt her swagging pannier's load
A FARMER'S WIFE to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care
Summ'd up the profits of her ware;
When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream :-

That RAVEN on yon left-hand oak (Curse on his ill-betiding croak !) Bodes me no good. No more she said, When poor blind BALL, with stumbling tread, Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay, And her mash'd eggs bestrew'd the way.

She, sprawling in the yellow road, Rail'd, swore and curs'd-Thou croaking toad, A murrain take thy whoreson throat! I knew misfortune in the note.

DAME, quoth the RAVEN, spare your oaths, Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown? GOODY, the fault was all your own ;

For, had you laid this brittle ware the old sure-footed MARE,

On DUN,

Though all the RAVENS of the HUNDRED With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd, Sure-footed DUN had kept his legs,

And you, GOOD WOMAN, sav'd your eggs.

THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

In other men we faults can spy,

And blame the mote that dims their eye, Each little speck and blemish find;

To our own stronger errors blind.

A TURKEY, tir'd of common food, Forsook the barn, and sought the wood; Behind her ran her infant train, Collecting here and there a grain.

Draw near, my birds, the mother cries, This hill delicious fare supplies;

Behold the busy NEGRO race;
See, millions blacken all the place!
Fear not. Like me, with freedom eat;
An ANT is most delightful meat.

How blest, how envy'd, were our life,
Could we but 'scape the POULT'RER'S knife!
But man, curst man, on TURKEYS preys,
And CHRISTMAS shortens all our days;
Sometimes with OYSTERS we combine,
Sometimes assist the sav'ry CHINE:
From the low peasant to the lord,
The TURKEY Smokes on ev'ry board.
Sure men for gluttony are curst,

Of the sev'n deadly sins the worst.

An ANT, who climb'd beyond his reach, Thus answer'd from the neighb'ring beech :Ere you remark another's sin,

Bid thy own conscience look within.
Controul thy more voracious bill,

Nor for a breakfast nations kill.