ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,

KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.

[July 15, 1793.]

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.

But you have kill'd a tiny bird,

Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chas'd with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,

Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.

223

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU. My dog! what remedy remains,

Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains,

So much resemble Man?

BEAU'S REPLY.
Sir, when I flew to seize the bird

In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,

And harder to withstand.

You cried-forbear-but in my breast

A mightier cried-proceed'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest

Impell’d me to the deed. Yet much as nature I respect,

I ventur'd once to break, (As you, perhaps, may recollect)

Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day,

Passing his prison door,
Had flutter'd all his strength away,

And panting press'd the floor,
Well knowing him a sacred thing,

Not destin'd to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.

226

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU.

Let my obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse

From your aggriev'd Bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime,

(Which I can hardly see,) What think you, Sir, of killing Time

With verse address'd to me?

FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR.

· NEWTON,
Late Rector of St. Mary Woolnoth.

[Dated May 28, 1782.]

Says the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't under

stand, What the ladies and gentlemen see in your

face, That you are in fashion all over the land,

And I am so much fallen into disgrace. Do but see what a pretty contemplative air

I give to the company--pray do but note 'emYou would think that the wise men of Greece

were all there, Or, at least would suppose them the wise men

of Gotham. My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown

roses, While you are a nuisance where'er you appear ;

228 FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON. There is nothing but sniv'ling and blowing of

noses, Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to

hear.

Then lifting his lid in a delicate way,
And op'ning his mouth with a smile quite

engaging,
The box in reply was heard plainly to say,

What a silly dispute is this we are waging! If you have a little of merit to claim, You may think the sweet-smelling Virginian

weed, And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,

The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.

a

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our

own, No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,

But of any thing else they may choose to put

in us.