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."