Vicar liv'd on this fide Trent,
Religious, learn'd, benevolent,
Pure was his life, in deed, word, thought,
A comment on the truths he taught:
His parish large, his income small,
Yet feldom wanted wherewithal;
For against every merry tide
Madam would carefully provide.
A painful paftor; but his sheep,
Alas! within no bounds would keep;
A fcabby flock, that every day
Run riot, and would go aftray.
He thump'd his cushion, fretted, vext,
Thumb'd o'er again each useful text;
Rebuk'd, exhorted, all in vain,
His parish was the more profane :
The fcrubs would have their wicked will,
And cunning Satan triumph'd ftill.
At last, when each expedient fail'd,
And ferious measures nought avail'd,
It came into his head, to try
The force of wit and raillery.
The good man was by nature gay,
Could gibe and joke, as well as pray;
Not like fome hide-bound folk, who chace
Each merry fmile from their dull face,
And think pride zeal, ill-nature grace.
At christenings and each jovial feast,
He fingled out the finful beaft:
Let all his pointed arrows fly,
Told this and that, look'd very fly,
And left mafters to apply.
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His tales were humorous, often true,
And now and then fet off to view
With lucky fictions and sheer wit,
That pierc'd, where truth could never hit.
The laugh was always on his fide,
While paffive fools by turns deride;
And, giggling thus at one another,
Each jeering lout reform'd his brother;
Till the whole parish was with ease
Sham'd into virtue by degrees :
Then be advis'd, and try a tale,
When Chryfoftom and Austin fail.
A TA L E.
MAN, of precarious fcience vain,
Treats other creatures with difdain;
Nor Pug nor Shock have common sense,
Nor even Pol the least pretence,
Though the prates better than us all,
To be accounted rational.
The brute creation here below,
It feems, is nature's puppet-show;
But clock-work all, and mere machine,
What can these idle gimcracks mean?
Ye world-makers of Grefham-hall,
Dog Rover fhall confute you all;
Shall prove that every reasoning brute
Like Ben of Bangor can dispute;
Can apprehend, judge, fyllogize,
Or like proud Bentley criticize :
At a moot point, or odd disaster,
Is often wifer than his mafter.
mistake sometimes, 'tis true,
None are infallible but you.
The dog whom nothing can mislead
Must be a dog of parts indeed :
But to my tale; hear me, my friend,
And with due gravity attend.
Rover, as heralds are agreed,
Well-born, and of the setting breed;
Rang'd high, was ftout, of nose acute,
A very learn'd and courteous brute,
In parallel lines his ground he beat,
Not fuch as in one centre meet;
In those let blundering doctors deal,
His were exactly parallel.
When tainted gales the game betray,
Down close he finks,
and eyes his prey. Though different paffions tempt his foul, True as the needle to the pole,
He keeps his point, and panting lies,
The floating net above him flies,
Then, dropping, fweeps the fluttering prize.
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Nor this his only excellence :
When furly farmers took offence,
And the rank corn the fport deny'd,
Still faithful to his master's fide,
A thousand pretty pranks he play'd,
And chearful each command obey'd:
Humble his mind, though great his wit,
Would lug a pig, or turn the fpit;
Would fetch and carry, leap o'er sticks,
And forty fuch diverting tricks.
Nor Partridge, nor wife Gadbury,
Could find loft goods fo foon as he;
Bid him go back a mile or more,
And feek the glove you hid before,
Still his unerring nose would wind it,
If above ground, was fure to find it;
Whimpering for joy his master greet,
And humbly lay it at his feet.
But hold-it cannot be deny'd,
That useful talents mifapply'd
May make wild work. It hapt one day,
Squire Lobb, his mafler, took his way,
New fhav'd, and fmug, and very tight,
To compliment a neighbouring knight;
In his best trowsers he appears
(A comely perfon for his years);
And clean white drawers, that many a day
In lavender and rofe-cakes lay.
Acrofs his brawny shoulders ftrung,
On his left fide his dagger hung;
Dead-doing blade! a dreadful guest,
Or in the field, or at the feast.
No Franklin carving of a chine
At Chriftide, ever look'd so fine.
With him obfequious Rover trudg'd,
Nor from his heels one moment budg'd:
A while they travel'd, when within
Poor Lobb perceiv'd a rumbling din:
Then warring winds, for want of vent,
Shook all his earthly tenement.
So in the body politick
(For ftates fometimes, like men, are fick)
Dark faction mutters through the crowd,
Ere bare-fac'd treafon roars aloud:
Whether crude humours undigested
His labouring entrails had infefted,
Or last night's load of bottled ale,
Grown mutinous, was breaking gaol:
The cause of this his aukward pain,
Let Johnston or let H-th explain;
Whofe learned noses may discover,
Why nature's ftink-pot thus ran over.
My province is th' effect to trace,
And give each point its proper grace,
Th' effect, O lamentable cafe!
Long had he struggled, but in vain,
The factious tumult to reftrain :
What should he do? Th' unruly rout
Prefs'd on, and it was time, no doubt,
T' unbutton, and to let all out.
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