uld annoy,
That thousands want what you enjoy.
'The dinner must be dished at one.
Where's this vexatious turnspit gone?
_40
Unless the skulking cur is caught,
The sirloin's spoiled, and I'm in fault.'
Thus said: (for sure you'll think it fit
That I the cook-maid's oaths omit)
With all the fury of a cook,
Her cooler kitchen Nan forsook.
The broomstick o'er her head she waves;
She sweats, she stamps, she puffs, she raves.
The sneaking cur before her flies:
She whistles, calls; fair speech she tries.
_50
These nought avail. Her choler burns;
The fist and cudgel threat by turns;
With hasty stride she presses near;
He slinks aloof, and howls with fear.
'Was ever cur so cursed!' he cried,
'What star did at my birth preside?
Am I for life by compact bound
To tread the wheel's eternal round?
Inglorious task! Of all our race
No slave is half so mean and base.
_60
Had fate a kinder lot assigned,
And formed me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employed,
Had indolence and ease enjoyed;
And, like a gentleman, caress'd,
Had been the lady's favourite guest.
Or were I sprung from spaniel line,
Was his sagacious nostril mine,
By me, their never-erring guide,
From wood and plain their feasts supplied
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Knights, squires, attendant on my pace,
Had shared the pleasures of the chase.
Endued with native strength and fire,
Why called I not the lion sire?
A lion! such mean views I scorn.
Why was I not of woman born?
Who dares with reason's power contend?
On man we brutal slaves depend:
To him all creatures tribute pays,
And luxury employs his days.'
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An ox by chance o'erheard his moan,
And thus rebuked the lazy drone:
'Dare you at partial fate repine?
How kind's your lot compared with mine!
Decreed to toil, the barbarous knife
Hath severed me from social life;
Urged by the stimulating goad,
I drag the cumbrous waggon's load:
'Tis mine to tame the stubborn plain,
Break the stiff soil, and house the grain;
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Yet I without a murmur bear
The various labours of the year.
But then consider, that one day,
(Perhaps the hour's not far away,)
You, by the duties of your post,
Shall turn the spit when I'm the roast:
And for reward shall share the feast;
I mean, shall pick my bones at least.'
''Till now,' the astonished cur replies,
'I looked on all with envious eyes.
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