THE MEN AND WOMEN, AND THE MONKEYS

A FABLE

When beasts by words their meanings could declare, Some well-drest men and women did repair To gaze upon two monkeys at a fair:

And one who was the spokesman in the place Said, in their count'nance you might plainly trace The likeness of a wither'd old man's face.

His observation none impeach'd or blam'd, But every man and woman when 'twas nam'd Drew in the head, or slunk away asham'd.

One monkey, who had more pride than the other, His infinite chagrin could scarcely smother; But Pug the wiser said unto his brother:

"The slights and coolness of this human nation Should give a sensible ape no mort'fication; 'Tis thus they always serve a poor relation."

LOVE, DEATH, AND REPUTATION

A FABLE

Once on a time, Love, Death, and Reputation, Three travellers, a tour together went; And, after many a long perambulation, Agreed to part by mutual consent.

Death said: "My fellow tourists, I am going To seek for harvests in th' embattled plain; Where drums are beating, and loud trumpets blowing, There you'll be sure to meet with me again"

Love said: "My friends, I mean to spend my leisure With some young couple, fresh in Hymen's bands; Or 'mongst relations, who in equal measure Have had bequeathed to them house or lands."

But Reputation said: "If once we sever, Our chance of future meeting is but vain: Who parts from me, must look to part for ever, For _Reputation lost comes not again_."

THE SPARROW AND THE HEN

A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak, Addressed an old Hen who could talk like a Jay: Said he, "It's unjust that we Sparrows must seek Our food, when your family's fed every day.

"Were you like the Peac.o.c.k, that elegant bird, The sight of whose plumage her master may please, I then should not wonder that you are preferr'd To the yard, where in affluence you live at your ease.

"I affect no great style, am not costly in feathers, A good honest brown I find most to my liking, It always looks neat, and is fit for all weathers, But I think your gray mixture is not very striking.

"We know that the bird from the isles of Canary Is fed, foreign airs to sing in a fine cage; But your note from a cackle so seldom does vary, The fancy of man it cannot much engage.

"My chirp to a song sure approaches much nearer, Nay, the Nightingale tells me I sing not amiss; If voice were in question I ought to be dearer; But the Owl he a.s.sures me there's nothing in this.

"Nor is it your p.r.o.neness to domestication, For he dwells in man's barn, and I build in man's thatch, As we say to each other--but, to our vexation, O'er your safety alone man keeps diligent watch."

"Have you e'er learned to read?" said the Hen to the Sparrow.

"No, Madam," he answer'd, "I can't say I have,"

"Then that is the reason your sight is so narrow,"

The old Hen replied, with a look very grave.

"Mrs. Gla.s.se in a Treatise--I wish you could read-- Our importance has shown, and has prov'd to us why Man shields us and feeds us: of us he has need Ev'n before we are born, even after we die."

WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE?

Brothers and sisters I have many: Though I know there is not any Of them but I love, yet I Will just name them all; and try, As one by one I count them o'er, If there be one a little more Lov'd by me than all the rest.

Yes; I do think, that I love best My brother Henry, because he Has always been most fond of me.

Yet, to be sure, there's Isabel; I think I love her quite as well.

And, I a.s.sure you, little Ann, No brother nor no sister can Be more dear to me than she.

Only, I must say, Emily, Being the eldest, it's right her To all the rest I should prefer.

Yet after all I've said, suppose My greatest fav'rite should be Rose.

No, John and Paul are both more dear To me than Rose, that's always here, While they are half the year at school; And yet that neither is no rule.

I've nam'd them all, there's only seven; I find my love to all so even, To every sister, every brother, I love not one more than another.

THE BEGGAR-MAN

Abject, stooping, old, and wan, See yon wretched beggar man; Once a father's hopeful heir, Once a mother's tender care.

When too young to understand He but scorch'd his little hand, By the candle's flaming light Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright, Clasping fond her darling round, A thousand kisses heal'd the wound.

Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, No mother tends the beggar man.

Then nought too good for him to wear, With cherub face and flaxen hair, In fancy's choicest gauds array'd, Cap of lace with rose to aid, Milk-white hat and feather blue, Shoes of red, and coral too With silver bells to please his ear, And charm the frequent ready tear.

Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Neglected is the beggar man.

See the boy advance in age, And learning spreads her useful page; In vain! for giddy pleasure calls, And shews the marbles, tops, and b.a.l.l.s.

What's learning to the charms of play?

The indulgent tutor must give way.

A heedless wilful dunce, and wild, The parents' fondness spoil'd the child; The youth in vagrant courses ran; Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Their fondling is the beggar man.

CHOOSING A PROFESSION

A Creole boy from the West Indies brought, To be in European learning taught, Some years before to Westminster he went, To a Preparatory School was sent.

When from his artless tale the mistress found, The child had not one friend on English ground, She, ev'n as if she his own mother were, Made the dark Indian her peculiar care.

Oft on her fav'rite's future lot she thought; To know the bent of his young mind she sought, For much the kind preceptress wish'd to find To what profession he was most inclin'd, That where his genius led they might him train; For nature's kindly bent she held not vain.

But vain her efforts to explore his will; The frequent question he evaded still: Till on a day at length he to her came, Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same Trade he would be those boys of colour were, Who danc'd so happy in the open air.

It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys, With wooden music and obstrep'rous noise, In tarnish'd finery and grotesque array, Were dancing in the street the first of May.

BREAKFAST

A dinner party, coffee, tea, Sandwich, or supper, all may be In their way pleasant. But to me Not one of these deserves the praise That welcomer of new-born days, _A breakfast_, merits; ever giving Cheerful notice we are living Another day refresh'd by sleep, When its festival we keep.

Now although I would not slight Those kindly words we use "Good night,"

Yet parting words are words of sorrow, And may not vie with sweet "Good morrow,"

With which again our friends we greet, When in the breakfast-room we meet, At the social table round, Listening to the lively sound Of those notes which never tire, Of urn, or kettle on the fire.

Sleepy Robert never hears Or urn, or kettle; he appears When all have finish'd, one by one Dropping off, and breakfast done.

Yet has he too his own pleasure, His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure; And, left alone, he reads or muses, Or else in idle mood he uses To sit and watch the vent'rous fly, Where the sugar's piled high, Clambering o'er the lumps so white, Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.

WEEDING

As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play, Was lab'ring industriously hard To cull the vile weeds from the flow'rets away, Which grew in her father's court-yard;