  How many saucy beaux we meet 'Twixt Westminster and Aldgate-street! Rascals—the mushrooms of a day, Who sprung and shared the South Sea prey, Nor in their zenith condescend To own or know the humble friend. A careful farmer took his way Across his yard at break of day: He leant a moment o'er the rail, To hear the music of the flail; In his quick eye he viewed his stock,— The geese, the hogs, the fleecy flock. A barleymow there, fat as mutton, Then held her master by the button: "Master, my heart and soul are wrung—till They can't abide that dirty dunghill: Master, you know I make your beer— You boast of me at Christmas cheer; Then why insult me and disgrace me, And next to that vile dunghill place me? By Jove! it gives my nose offence: Command the hinds to cart it hence." "You stupid Barleymow," said Dunghill; "You talk about your heart and wrung-ill: Where would you be, I'd like to know, Had I not fed and made you grow? You of October brew brag—pshaw! You would have been a husk of straw. And now, instead of gratitude, You rail in this ungrateful mood." |
|
