"Tis clear that they were always able A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon skull. It chanc'd then on a winter's day, To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, And with much twitter and much chatter, Began to agitate the matter. At length a Bulfinch, who could boast My friends! be cautious how ye treat I fear we shall have winter yet. A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing, and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried Opposite in the apple tree, By his good will would keep us single Till death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado, My dear Dick Redcap, what say you ? Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting, and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. But though the birds were thus in haste, Except that they had never met ; MORAL. Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry- But proper time, to marry. THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. NO FABLE. THE noon was shady, and soft airs My spaniel, prettiest of his race, (Two nymphs* adorn'd with ev'ry grace That spaniel found for me.) Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, Pursu'd the swallow o'er the meads It was the time when Ouse display'd And one I wish'd my own. With cane extended far I sought But still the prize, though nearly caught, * Sir Robert Gunning's daughters Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains But with a cherup clear and strong, I thence withdrew, and follow'd long My ramble ended, I return'd; The floating wreath again discern'd, I saw him with that lily cropp'd, My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried, Shall hear of this thy deed: But chief myself I will enjoin, To show a love as prompt as thine, THE POET, THE OYSTER AND SENSITIVE PLANT. AN Oyster, cast upon the shore, Was heard, though never heard before, Complaining in a speech well worded. Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell For ever in my native shell; Ordain'd to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease · But toss'd, and buffetted about, I envy that unfeeling shrub, The plant he meant grew not far off, And with asperity replied. When, cry the botanists, and stare, Did plants call'd sensitive grow there? No matter when-a poet's muse is, To make them grow just where she chooses You that are but almost a fish, If I can feel as well as he; And when I bend, retire, and shrink, Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think ! Thus life is spent, (oh fie upon't !) |