The Coach And The Fly.

Upon a sandy, uphill road, Which naked in the sunshine glow'd, Six lusty horses drew a coach. Dames, monks, and invalids, its load, On foot, outside, at leisure trode. The team, all weary, stopp'd and blow'd: Whereon there did a fly approach, And, with a vastly business air. Cheer'd up the horses with his buzz,— Now pricked them here, now prick'd them there, As neatly as a jockey does,— And thought the while—he knew 'twas so— He made the team and carriage go,— On carriage-pole sometimes alighting— Or driver's nose—and biting. And when the whole did get in motion, Confirm'd and settled in the notion, He took, himself, the total glory,— Flew back and forth in wondrous hurry, And, as he buzz'd about the cattle, Seem'd like a sergeant in a battle, The files and squadrons leading on To where the victory is won. Thus charged with all the commonweal, This single fly began to feel Responsibility too great, And cares, a grievous crushing weight; And made complaint that none would aid The horses up the tedious hill— The monk his prayers at leisure said— Fine time to pray!—the dames, at will, Were singing songs—not greatly needed! Thus in their ears he sharply sang, And notes of indignation ran,— Notes, after all, not greatly heeded. Erelong the coach was on the top: 'Now,' said the fly, 'my hearties, stop And breathe;—I've got you up the hill; And Messrs. Horses, let me say, I need not ask you if you will A proper compensation pay.' Thus certain ever-bustling noddies Are seen in every great affair; Important, swelling, busy-bodies, And bores 'tis easier to bear Than chase them from their needless care.