Thy tarts to tarts, cheese-cakes to cheese-cakes join, By thy Weftphalian-ham, or Belgick-beef; II. 20 26 Oh! Peggy, Peggy, when thou go'ft to brew, That what you're going now to make is drink: 30 Left a white substance to the surface fly, III. } 40 How fleet is air! how many things have breath Which in a moment they refign to death; Depriv'd of light, and all their happiest state, Not by their fault but fome o'er-ruling fate. 45 Altho' fair flowers, that juftly might invite, And, when she fees the butcher's knife decreed, 51 55 With pride, ftill lays man's fellow-mortals waste : What earth and waters breed, or air inspires, Man for his palate fits by torturing fires. Mully, a cow, fprung from a beauteous race, With fpreading front, did Mountown's pastures grace. Gentle fhe was, and, with a gentle stream, 60 Each morn and night gave milk that equal'd cream. Offending none, of none she stood in dread, Much lefs of persons which she daily fed: But innocence cannot itself defend 65 'Gainft treacherous arts, veil'd with the name of friend. Robin of Darby-fhire, whofe temper fhocks Born in a * place, which, if it once be nam'd, The Devil's Arfe of Peak. 70 He with indulgence kindly did appear 75 'Tis a brave cow; O, Sirs, when Christmas comes, These fhins fhall make the porridge grac'd with plums ; Then, midst our cups, whilft we profusely dine, This blade fhall enter deep in Mully's chine; What ribs, what rumps, what bak'd, boil'd, ftew'd, and roast! There shan't one fingle tripe of her be loft! When Peggy, nymph of Mountown, heard these founds, 86 She griev'd to hear of Mully's future wounds. Daniel, a sprightly fwain, that us'd to flash The vigorous fleeds that drew his lord's calash, To Peggy's fide inclin'd, for 'twas well known How well he lov'd those cattel of his own. Then Terence spoke, oraculous and fly, He'd neither grant the queftion nor deny ; Pleading for milk, his thoughts were on mince pye: But all his arguments so dubious were, That Mully thence had neither hope nor fear. 101 You've spoke, fays Robin; but now let me tell ye, 'Tis not fair-spoken words that fill the belly; Pudding and beef I love, and cannot stoop To recommend your bonnyclapper foop. You fay fhe's innocent; but what of that? 'Tis more than crime fufficient that she's fat : And that which is prevailing in this case Is, there's another cow to fill her place. And granting Mully to have milk in store, Yet still this other cow will give us more. She dies.-Stop here, my mufe; forbear the reft; And veil that grief which cannot be exprest. 105 THOU, TO CLOE. HOU, to whose eyes I bend; at whofe command (Tho' low my voice, tho' artless be my hand) I take the sprightly reed, and fing, and play; 5 Tho' fince her youth three hundred years have roll'd. At thy defire, she shall again be rais'd; II And her reviving charms in lasting verse be prais❜d. * See the "POEMS BY UNCERTAIN AUTHORS," + Born 1664; dyed 1721. |