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O Grey ! Peel! Sadler ! Wilberforce! Burdett!
Hume! Wilmot Horton! Think of your prose and verse, and worse - delivered in
Hog's Norton !
The founder of Hog's Norton Athenæum
Framed her society
With some variety
Had killed a porker.
It chanced one Friday, One Farmer Grayley stuck a very big hog, A perfect Gog or Magog of a pig-hog, Which made of course a literary high day, — Not that our Farmer was a man to go With literary tastes — so far from suiting 'em, When he heard mention of Professor Crowe, Or Lalla-Rookh, he always was for shooting 'em! In fact in letters he was quite a log,
With him great Bacon
Was literally taken, And Hogg — the Poet — nothing but a Hog! As to all others on the list of Fame, Although they were discussed and mentioned
He only recognized one classic name, [Baillie ! And thought that she had hung herself — Miss
To balance this, our Farmer's only daughter
She got the bluer
Of learning's laurels — Miss Joanna Baillie -
“ LOVE LAYS AND LYRICS
A. P. I. G.”
Accordingly, with very great propriety,
That is,— Hog's Norton Blue Stocking Society;
This feast, we said, one Friday was the case,
With pig-wigs !
The swine — poor wretch ! — with nobody to
speak for it, And beg its life, resolved to have a squeak for it ; So — like the fabled swan — died singing out, And, thus, there issued from the farmer's yard A note that notified without a card, An invitation to the evening rout.
And when the time came duly,—“at the close of
Although the Muse might fairly jest upon it, They came— each “ Pig-faced Lady,” in that bonnet
We call a poke. . The Members all assembled thus, a rare woman At pork and poetry was chosen chairwoman; — In fact, the bluest of the Blues, Miss Ikey, Whose whole pronunciation was so piggy, She always named the authoress of “ Psyche,” —
As Mrs. Tiggey!
And now arose a question of some moment,
But some for Flitcher ;
Proposed another work,
And thought their pork Would prove more relishing from Thomson's
But, practised in Shaksperian readings daily,--
Just fancy her exerting
The Winter's Tale to something like a pig-tale!
Her sister auditory, All sitting round, with grave and learned faces,
Were very plauditory, Of course, and clapped her at the proper places ; Till fanned at once by fortune and the Muse, She thought herself the blessedest of Blues. But Happiness, alas ! has blights of ill, And Pleasure's bubbles in the air explode ;There is no travelling through life but still The heart will meet with breakers on the road !
With that peculiar voice Heard only from Hog's Norton throats and noses, Miss G., with Perdita, was making choice Of buds and blossoms for her summer posies, When coming to that line, where Proserpine Lets fall her flowers from the wain of Dis;
Imagine this — Uprose on his hind legs old Farmer Grayley, Grunting this question for the club's digestion, “ Do Dis's Wagon go from the Ould Bäaley ?”