Barleymow And Dunghill.

        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."