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'Or say that horses be my theme,

Hath not the staggers thinn'd my team? 'Have not a thousand ills beside

'Depriv'd my stable of its pride?

'When I survey my lands around, 'What thorns and thistles spread my ground! 'Doth not the grain my hopes beguile, 'And mildews mock the thresher's toil? However poor the harvests past,

'What so deficient as the last!

'But tho', nor blast nor mildews rise,

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My turnips are destroy'd by flies;

'My sheep are pin'd to such degree, 'That not a butcher comes to me.

'Seasons are chang'd from what they were, 'And hence too foul, or hence too fair. 'Now scorching heat and drought annoy, • And now returning showers destroy. Thus have I pass'd my better years ''Midst disappointments, cares and tears. And, now, when I compute my gains, • What have I reap'd for all my pains?

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'Oh! had I known in manhood's prime These slow convictions wrought by time; 'Would I have brav'd the various woes

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Of summer suns, and winter snows?

'Would I have tempted every sky,
'So wet, so windy, or so dry,
'With all the elements at strife?
'Ah! no-I then had plann'd a life,

"Where wealth attends the middle stage,
́ And rest and comfort wait on age.
• Where rot and murrain ne'er commence,
Nor pastures burn at my expence ;
Nor injur'd cows their wants bewail,
Nor dairies mourn the milkless pail ;
Nor barns lament the blasted grain,
'Nor cattle blame the barren plain.'
Dun hobbled by his master's side,
And thus the sober brute reply'd:

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'Look thro' your team, and where's the steed Who dares dispute with me his breed?

But, ah! it now avails me not

By what illustrious chief begot!

Spavins pay no regard to birth,
And failing vision sinks my worth.
The 'Squire, when he disgusted grew,
'Transferr'd his property to you.

And since poor Dun became your own,
'What scenes of sorrow have I known!
'Hath it not been my constant toil
'To drag the plough, and turn the soil?
Are not my bleeding shoulders wrung

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By large and weighty loads of dung?

When the shorn meadows claim your care,

And fragrant cocks perfume the air; "When harvest's ripen'd fruits abound, 'And Plenty waves her sheaves around; 'True to my collar, home I bear 'The treasures of the fruitful year.

And, tho' this drudgery be mine,

You never heard me once repine.

'Yet what rewards have crown'd my days? 'I'm grudg'd the poor reward of praise. For oats small gratitude I owe, 'Beans were untasted joys, you know. 'And, now I'm hast'ning to my end, 'Past services can find no friend. 'Infirmities, disease, and age, 'Provoke my surly driver's rage. 'Look to my wounded flanks, you'll see 'No horse was ever us'd like me.

'But now I eat my meals with pain, 'Averse to masticate the grain. 'Hence you direct, at night and morn, 'That chaff accompany my corn;

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For husks, altho' my teeth be few, 'Force my reluctant jaws to chew. 'What then? of life shall I complain, 'And call it fleeting, false and vain ? Against the world shall I inveigh, 'Because my grinders now decay?

"You think it were the wiser plan, • Had I consorted ne'er with man; 'Had I my liberty maintain❜d, 'Or liberty by flight regain'd,

'And rang'd o'er distant hills and dales "With the wild foresters of Wales.

'Grant I succeeded to my mind'Is happiness to hills confin'd?

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Don't famine oft erect her throne

Upon the rugged mountain's stone?
And don't the lower pastures fail,

• When snows descending choke the vale?
'Or who so hardy to declare

'Disease and death ne'er enter there?
'Do pains or sickness here invade ?
'Man tenders me his cheerful aid.
For who beholds his hungry beast,
'But grants him some supply at least?
'Int'rest shall prompt him to pursue
'What inclination would not do.

'Say, had I been the desert's foal,
'Thro' life estrang'd to man's control;
"What service had I done on earth,
'Or who could profit by my birth?

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My back had ne'er sustain'd thy weight,

'My chest ne'er known thy waggon's freight;

'But now my several powers combine

'To answer Nature's ends and thine.

'I'm useful thus in every view

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Oh! could I say the same of you!

'Superior evils had ensu'd,

'With prescience had I been endu’d.
Ills, tho' at distance seen, destroy,
'Or sicken every present joy;
'We relish every new delight,

'When future griefs elude our sight.

'To blindness then what thanks are due! 'It makes each single comfort two.

'The colt, unknown to pain and toil, Anticipates to-morrow's smile.

Yon lamb enjoys the present hour, 'As stranger to the butcher's power. 'Your's is a wild Utopian scheme, A boy would blush to own your dream. 'Be your profession what it will, 'No province is exempt from ill. 'Quite from the cottage to the throne, 'Stations have sorrows of their own. 'Why should a peasant then explore 'What longer heads ne'er found before? 'Go, preach my doctrine to your son, By yours, the lad would be undone.

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But, whether he regards or not,

6 The lecture would be soon forgot.

'The hopes which gull'd the parent's breast, 'Ere long will make his son their jest. 'Tho' now these cobweb-cheats you spurn, 'Yet every man's a dupe in turn.

'Else life would stagnate at its source, 'And Man, and Horse decline the course. 'Then bid young Ralpho never mind it, 'But take the world as he shall find it,'

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