  WOULD you that Delville I describe? Believe me, sir, I will not gibe; For who could be satirical Upon a thing so very small? You scarce upon the borders enter, Before you’re at the very centre. A single crow can make it night, When o’er your farm she takes her flight: Yet, in this narrow compass, we Observe a vast variety; Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs, And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields, And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields; All to your haggard brought so cheap in, A razor, tho’ to say’t I’m loth, Would shave you and your meadows both. Tho’ small’s the farm, yet here’s a house Full large to entertain a mouse; But where a rat is dreaded more Than savage Caledonian boar; For, if it’s enter’d by a rat, There is no room to bring a cat. A little rivulet seems to steal Down thro’ a thing you call a vale, Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, Like rain along a blade of leek: And this you call your sweet meander, Which might be suck’d up by a gander, Could he but force his nether bill To scoop the channel of the rill. For sure you’d make a mighty clutter, Were it as big as city gutter. Next come I to your kitchen garden, Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; And round this garden is a walk, No longer than a tailor’s chalk; Thus I compare what space is in it, A snail creeps round it in a minute. One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze Up thro’ a tuft you call your trees: And, once a year, a single rose Peeps from the bud, but never blows; In vain then you expect its bloom! In short, in all your boasted seat, There’s nothing but yourself that’s GREAT. Thomas Sheridan. |
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