Silent she sat with rapture high, Full on dear Tom was fix'd her eye; She arch'd her neck, and rear'd her crest, Go,' cried the Cock, my soul disdains They fight, and dismal scenes ensue, ne mourn the wounded, nor the dead. New rakes, new loves, new broils succeed, They riot, envy, fight, and bleed. With speechless joys the Turtles glow'd, Their joys their meeting glances shew'd; They bless'd the Gracious Pow'r above, That each of them was form'd a Dove.. Let others take from Cocks their cue, And range wide nature's common through; By Doves instructed, you and I, Each with his one can live and die. FABLE LXXXII. Gag THE LARK AND HER YOUNG ONES. THE Lark, a bird politely bred, In a rye-field, where oft she sung, About the field their walk begun ; Sure,' quoth the man, this grain is grown Too ripe, and should ere this be down. The Lark returns, the tim'rous brood 'Children,' said she, 'go take your rest, 'Safe for to-morrow stands the nest; His harvest work he long attends, Who leaves the labour to his friends.' Next morn abroad the mother goes More food to get, and sooth their woes. At length the Farmer hobbles by To see his friends cut down the rye; But sees he came, alas! too soon, Tho' the high sun proclaim'd it noon. Our friends,' quoth he, with looks demure, • Of late are wond'rous lazy, sure; : Well, we'll our kindred's good-will try, 'To-morrow they shall cut the rye.' The Larks thought now all past relief, Untouch'd they saw the rye still stand, 'Well,' quoth the sire, the ties of blood ' And friendship I've ill understood; To-morrow, ere the sun you see, "Two sickles bring for you and me ; Our friends, our kindred long may stay, Let us the harvest bear away.' When the young Larks this news repeat, 'Hence,' cries the dam, we all must get ; • Your legs, your wings, my children, try, For down to-morrow goes the rye.' That never bid your friends pursue, Which you without their aid can do. FABLE LXXXIII. THE MAGPIE : OR, BAD COMPANY. LET others with poetic fire In raptures praise the tuneful choir, The Linnet, Chaffinch, Goldfinch, Thrush, And ev'ry warbler of the bush ; I sing the mimic Magpie's fame, In Fleet-street dwelt, in days of yore, But passionately fond of play, No sounds to him such sweets afford A fav'rite Magpie sees the play, And mimics ev'ry word they say. Oh! how he nicks us, Tom Moore cries, Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse; To keep him from a dreary gaol. And, now, between each heartfelt sigh, |