Fable XXIV. the Magpye and Lark

A MAGPYE, who with constant rattle, Could fast as any gossip prattle; A forward, pert, conceited elf, Enraptur'd with delightful self; Beheld a LARK who sung hard by, With much contempt and scornful eye.

The songster heard with patient ears, A multitude of daily sneers; And bore them all, howe'er absurd, Nor answer'd once the coxcomb bird; But like a wise domestic did Whate'er his tender master bid; No business minded, but his own, And studied grateful songs alone.

No SPARTAN in the pilf'ring art Could play with more success his part, Than did the MAGPYE: when set free To bear young master company; Whate'er his bill, and strength could take, He bore away for mischief's sake; For things thus lost, if servants fought, 'Twas happiness supreme he thought: His mistress, too, he told of all Which in the kitchen could befall; What sweethearts were admitted there, How long they staid, and what their fare; Nor could the maidens undescried, A secret dish of tea provide; Nay, rather, tattler like, than fail, He'd soon invent a curious tale.

One morning, all he thought at rest, (The greatest knaves are fools at best;) In triumph, to the LARK he cries, What ho, you warbler of the skies, If any spirit fir'd your heart, How could you act this hum-drum part; Thus idly pass an useless age, Within the limits of your cage, And only strain with empty note, Your most unprofitable throat? While I'm so active in the house, I scarcely miss a stirring mouse; I see, I hear, and straight unfold, Whate'er may make our mistress scold; Who loves, you know, or right or wrong, To exercise her ceaseless tongue; And when I've made a hideous pother, Flings me some nice tit bit, or other— Besides, it is my constant plan, To steal, and hide whate'er I can; Then shrewdly tell the servant's name, I wish to brand with loss and shame: Thus, little short, as I can see, Of human wit and policy; My happy talents are display'd, Of nothing, but our CAT, afraid; While you so little notice claim, Scarce once a week I hear your name; And like the wild ones of your breed, Have no regale, but sod, or seed.

A servant maid, at morning's break, By Love, or Conscience kept awake; Heard MAGGY'S tale; when, fir'd with rage, She flew directly to his cage; Then seiz'd him, and with many a thump, Convey'd him underneath the pump; Where dous'd and drench'd almost to death; While yet he drew some doubtful breath, Tattler, LARDELLA cry'd, take that; Then threw him to the hungry CAT.

The LARK, who heard but did not see, This boaster's sad catastrophe, Reflected thus; designing Knaves, To sordid, selfish passions slaves; Assisted by dishonest guile, 'Tis true, may shine in life awhile; But where, at length, is all their gain, Enjoying sweets to purchase pain? To boast, I find, with vicious pride, Of useful talents misapplied; A knavish heart, and tattling tongue, From whence arises social wrong, Will haply bring, or soon, or late, Repentance, with untimely fate.

On no ambitious purpose bent, With competence, and ease content; I envy not the brightest parts, Devoted to pernicious arts; Let me enjoy, the songster said, An honest Heart, and peaceful Head.