Song XII. the Railers

Behold on the brow the leaves play in the breeze, While Cattle calm feed in the vale; The Church spire tapering, points through the trees, As Lord of the hill and the dale.

The playful Colts skip after Dams to the brook, The Brook slow and silently glides; The surface so smooth, and so clear, if you look It reflects the gay green on it's sides.

In Farm-yard, by his feather'd Seraglio caress'd, The King of the Walk dares to crow; No Nabob, nor Nimrod, enslaving the east, Such prowess with Beauty can show.

Beneath the still Cow, Nancy presses the teat, Her face like the ruddy fac'd morn; Loud strokes in the barn the strong Threshers repeat, Or winnow for market the corn.

Industrious, their Wives, at the doors of their cots, Sit spinning, dress'd cleanly, tho' coarse, To their Babes, while unheeding the Traveller trots, They shew the fine Man and his Horse.

At the heels of the Steed, bark the base village Whelps, Each puppy rude echo bestirs; But the Horse, too high bred, bounds away from their yelps, Disregarding the clamour of Curs.

Illiberal Railers thus Envy betray, When Merit above them they view; But Genius disdains to turn out of his way, Or afford a reply to the Crew.

To contempt and despair, such Insanes we commit; But to generous Rivals, a Toast,— May rich Men reward honest Fellows of wit,— Here's a health to those Dunces hate most.