The FOX and the HEN

'Twas on a fair and healthy Plain, There liv'd a poor but honest Swain, Had to his Lot a little Ground, Defended by a quick-set Mound: 'Twas there he milk'd his brindled Kine, And there he fed his harmless Swine: His Pigeons flutter'd to and fro, And bask'd his Poultry in a Row: Much we might say of each of these, As how his Pigs in Consort wheeze; How the sweet Hay his Heifers chew, And how the Pigeons softly coo: But we shall wave this motley Strain, And keep to one that's short and plain: Nor paint the Dunghill's feather'd King, For of the Hen we mean to sing.

A Hen there was, a strange one too, Cou'd sing (believe me, it is true) Or rather (as you may presume) Wou'd prate and cackle in a Tune: This quickly spread the Pullet's Fame, And Birds and Beasts together came: All mixt in one promiscuous Throng, To visit Partlet and her Song. It chanc'd there came amongst the Crew, Of witty Foxes not a few: But one more smart than all the rest, His serious Neighbour thus addrest: ' What think you of this Partlet here? ' 'Tis true her Voice is pretty clear: ' Yet without pausing I can tell, ' In what much more she wou'd excel: ' Methinks she'd eat exceeding well. This heard the list'ning Hen, as she Sat perch'd upon a Maple-tree.

The shrewd Proposal gall'd her Pride, And thus to Reynard she reply'd: ' Sir, you're extremely right I vow, ' But how will you come at me now? ' You dare not mount this lofty Tree, ' So there I'm pretty safe, you see. ' From long ago, (or Record lies) ' You Foxes have been counted wise: ' But sure this Story don't agree ' With your Device of eating me. ' For you, Dame Fortune still intends ' Some coarser Food than singing Hens: ' Besides e'er you can reach so high, ' Remember you must learn to fly. ' I own 'tis but a scurvy way, ' You have as yet to seize your Prey, ' By sculking from the Beams of Light, ' And robbing Hen-roosts in the Night: ' Yet you must keep this vulgar Trade ' Of thieving till your Wings are made.

' Had I the keeping of you tho', ' I'd make your subtle Worship know, ' We Chickens are your Betters due, ' Not fatted up for such as you: ' Shut up in Cub with rusty Chain, ' I'd make you lick your Lips in vain: ' And take a special Care, be sure, ' No Pullet shou'd come near your Door: ' But try if you cou'd feed or no, ' Upon a Kite or Carrion Crow.' Here ceas'd the Hen. The baffl'd Beast March'd off without his promis'd Feast.