He gloried in his limping pace;
The scars of honour seamed his face;
In every limb a gash appears,

And frequent fights retrenched his ears.
As, on a time, he heard from far
Two dogs engaged in noisy war,
Away he scours and lays about him,
Resolved no fray should be without him.
Forth from his yard a tanner flies,
And to the bold intruder cries:

A cudgel shall correct your manners,
Whence sprung this cursed hate to tanners?
While on my dog you vent your spite,
Sirrah! 'tis me you dare not bite.'
To see the battle thus perplexed,
With equal rage a butcher vexed,
Hoarse-screaming from the circled crowd,
To the cursed mastiff cries aloud:

'Both Hockley-hole and Mary-bone
The combats of my dog have known.
He ne'er, like bullies coward-hearted,
Attacks in public, to be parted.

Think not, rash fool, to share his fame:
Be his the honour, or the shame.'

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Thus said, they swore, and raved like thunder;
Then dragged their fastened dogs asunder;
While clubs and kicks from every side
Rebounded from the mastiff's hide.

All reeking now with sweat and blood,
Awhile the parted warriors stood,
Then poured upon the meddling foe;
Who, worried, howled and sprawled below.
He rose; and limping from the fray,
By both sides mangled, sneaked away.

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FABLE XXXV.

THE BARLEY-MOW AND THE DUNGHILL.

How many saucy airs we meet

From Temple Bar to Aldgate Street!

Proud rogues, who shared the South-Sea prey,
And sprung like mushrooms in a day!
They think it mean, to condescend

To know a brother or a friend;

They blush to hear their mother's name,
And by their pride expose their shame.
As cross his yard, at early day,
A careful farmer took his way,
He stopped, and leaning on his fork,
Observed the flail's incessant work.
In thought he measured all his store,
His
geese, his hogs, he numbered o'er;
In fancy weighed the fleeces shorn,
And multiplied the next year's corn.
A Barley-mow, which stood beside,
Thus to its musing master cried:

'Say, good sir, is it fit or right
To treat me with neglect and slight?
Me, who contribute to your cheer,

And raise your mirth with ale and beer?
Why thus insulted, thus disgraced,
And that vile dunghill near me placed?
Are those poor sweepings of a groom,
That filthy sight, that nauseous fume,
Meet objects here? Command it hence:
A thing so mean must give offence.'

The humble dunghill thus replied:
Thy master hears, and mocks thy pride:

Insult not thus the meek and low;
In me thy benefactor know;

My warm assistance gave thee birth,
Or thou hadst perished low in earth;
But upstarts, to support their station,
Cancel at once all obligation.'

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FABLE XXXVI.

PYTHAGORAS AND THE COUNTRYMAN.

PYTHAG'RAs rose at early dawn,
By soaring meditation drawn,
To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Through flowery fields he took his way.
In musing contemplation warm,
His steps misled him to a farm,
Where, on the ladder's topmost round,
A peasant stood; the hammer's sound
Say, friend, what care

Shook the weak barn.
Calls for thy honest labour there?'
The clown, with surly voice replies,
Vengeance aloud for justice cries.
This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hens' annoy, my turkeys' dread,
At length his forfeit life has paid;
See on the wall his wings displayed,
Here nailed, a terror to his kind,
My fowls shall future safety find;
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barn's refuse fat the breed.'

'Friend,' says the sage, the doom is wise;

For public good the murderer dies.

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But if these tyrants of the air
Demand a sentence so severe,
Think how the glutton man devours;
What bloody feasts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou, perhaps, carniv'rous sinner,
Hadst pullets yesterday for dinner!'

'Hold,' cried the clown, with passion heated,

'Shall kites and men alike be treated?

When Heaven the world with creatures stored,

Man was ordained their sovereign lord.'

Thus tyrants boast,' the sage replied,

Whose murders spring from power and pride.

Own then this man-like kite is slain

Thy greater luxury to sustain;

For "Petty rogues submit to fate,

That great ones may enjoy their state."'1

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FABLE XXXVII.

THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.

'WHY are those tears? why droops your head? Is then your other husband dead?

Or does a worse disgrace betide?
Hath no one since his death applied?'

'Alas! you know the cause too well:
The salt is spilt, to me it fell.
Then, to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!

1 Garth's Dispensary.

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Last night (I vow to heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell,
God send my Cornish friends be well!'
'Unhappy widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears,

Let not thy stomach be suspended;

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Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And when the butler clears the table,
For thy desert, I'll read my fable.'
Betwixt her swagging panniers' load
A farmer's wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care
Summed up the profits of her ware;
When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream:
"That raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak)
Bodes me no good.' No more she said,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread, 30
Fell prone; o'erturned the pannier lay,

And her mashed eggs bestrowed the way.

She, sprawling in the yellow road,

Railed, swore and cursed: Thou croaking toad,

A murrain take thy whoreson throat!

I knew misfortune in the note.'

'Dame,' quoth the raven, 'spare your oaths, Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes.

But why on me those curses thrown?
Goody, the fault was all your own;

For had laid this brittle ware,

you

On Dun, the old sure-footed mare,

Though all the ravens of the hundred,

With croaking had your tongue out-thundered,

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