Forth from his yard a tanner flies,
And to the bold intruder cries:
"A cudgel fhall correct your manners:
Whence fprung this curfed hate to tanners?
While on my dog you vent your spite,
Sirrah! 'tis me you dare not bite."
To fee the battle thus perplex'd,
With equal rage a butcher, vex'd,
Hoarse-screaming from the circled crowd,
To the curs'd Mastiff cries aloud:
Both Hockleyhole and Marybone
The combats of my dog have known:
He ne'er, like bullies, coward-hearted,
Attacks in public, to be parted.
Think not, rafh fool, to fhare his fame;
Be his the honour, or the fhame.”
Thus faid, they fwore, and rav'd like thunder, Then dragg'd their fasten'd dogs asunder ; While clubs and kicks from every fide
Rebounded from the Maftiff's hide.
All reeking now with sweat and blood,
A while the parted warriors ftood;
Then pour'd upon the meddling foe,
Who, worried, howl'd and sprawl'd below.
He rofe; and limping from the fray,
By both fides mangled, sneak'd away.
THE BARLEY-MOW AND THE DUNGHILL.
HOW many faucy airs we meet
From Temple-bar to Aldgate-ftreet!
Proud rogues, who shared the South-sea prey,
And fprung like mushrooms in a day!
They think it mean to condefcend
To know a brother or a friend;
They blush to hear their mother's name,
And by their pride expose their shame.
As cross his yard, at early day,
A careful farmer took his way,
He stopp'd; and, leaning on his fork,
Obferv'd the flail's inceffant work.
In thought he meafur'd all his store,
His geefe, his hogs, he number'd o'er;
In fancy weigh'd the fleeces fhorn,
And multiply'd the next year's corn.
A Barley-mow, which ftood befide,
Thus to its mufing mafter cry'd:
"Say, good Sir, is it fit or right
To treat me with neglect and flight?
Me, who contribute to your cheer,
And raise your mirth with ale and beer?
Why thus infulted, thus difgrac'd,
And that vile dunghill near me plac'd ?
THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.
HY are thofe tears? why droops your head?
Is then your other husband dead?
Or does a worfe difgrace betide?
Hath no one fince his death apply'd?
Alas! you know the cause too well;
The falt is fpilt, to me it fell;
Then, to contribute to my lofs,
My knife and fork were laid across ;
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were fafe at home in bed!
Laft night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news fhall tell :
God fend my Cornish friends be well!
Unhappy Widow, ceafe thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears;
Let not thy ftomach be suspended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And, when the butler clears the table,
For thy defert I'll read my Fable.
Betwixt her fwagging panniers' 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 filver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her fcream.
"That Raven on yon' left hand oak (Curfe on his ill-betiding croak!)
Bodes me no good." No more fhe said,
When poor blind Ball, with ftumbling tread, 30
Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs beftrow'd the way.
She, fprawling in the yellow road,
Rail'd, fwore, and curs'd. "Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!
I knew misfortune in the note."
"Dame, quoth the Raven, fpare your oaths, Unclench your fift, and wipe your cloaths. But why on me those curfes thrown? Goody, the fault was all your own;
For, had you laid this brittle ware
On Dun, the old fure-footed mare,
Though all the Ravens of the Hundred
With croaking had your tongue out-thundered, Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,
And you, good Woman, fav'd your eggs."
N other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little fpeck and blemish find;
To our own ftronger errors blind.
A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
Forfook the barn, and fought the wood;
Behind her ran an infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.
"Draw near, my Birds! the Mother cries, This hill delicious fare fupplies;
Behold the busy negroe race,
See millions blacken all the place!
Fear not; like me, with freedom eat;
An Ant is most delightful meat.
How blefs'd, how envy'd, were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife!
But man, curs'd man, on Turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days.
Sometimes with oyfters we combine,
Sometimes affift the favoury chine;
From the low peasant to the lord,
The Turkey smokes on every board,
Sure men for gluttony are curs'd,
Of the feven deadly fins the worst."
An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach,
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