Fable XXXV 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.”