THE RAM: A TALE. Written about the time when the Ladies wore remarkably high head-dresses

Butler! thou dear facetious wight, Who know'st so well to paint a fight, Whose Muse cou'd flow when battles rage, Where bears, dogs, men, and all engage, Who mad'st advance, or mad'st retreat With ease the beating and the beat, With equal caution, equal skill, That none were killed, or could kill; Oh lend thy pen, thou name divine, To paint a battle fierce as thine: A battle which the Grecian bard, To celebrate would find too hard; Altho' his mighty genius taught, How gods with men together fought; How frogs and mice engage in fray, For honour they, as men for pay. Ye tuneful Nine—but hush the pray'r, The nymphs must not attend us here; For in this battle, such our fate, As truth demands, we must relate, How ladies fight, how fierce they are, When battling for a suit of hair.

The tale begins: but first, I trow, Time, place, and all, you want to know: But ladies' names, I hold it certain, Except when fortune smiles, and then I'll blab 'em forth as soon as men. Two ladies at their toilet sat, One talk'd of this, the other that— But stop; the one I'll nickname Molly, And for the rhyme, the other Dolly.

Heroes may boast of battles won, Of feats by mighty warriors done, Of marches, counter-marches too, And arts of war they never knew; Of defiles, ambuscades, and stuff, And skill not worth a pinch of snuff, View Molly's generalship and plan, Then beat it, heroes, if you can. Molly, I say, mov'd slowly on, To where the first attack begun. The ram majestic march'd along, As some proud puppy thro' a throng, But soon the crafty foes he feels, Attacking both at head and heels. One seiz'd his horn, and one his wool; Now, now, she cried, my pack is full. Ah! bootless boast, ah! prospect vain! What toils? what mischiefs yet remain? Thus, while the shouts of conquest rise, By random shot, the victor dies. For soon the ram submission scorns, With desp'rate jerks he loos'd his horns; And turning 'round, disdaining fear, Charg'd home the plund'rer of his rear. Just then, poor Molly, at a pull, Had strove to fill her hands with wool. The thickest fleece in vain she wrench'd, Tho' to the root, her fingers clench'd. The ram began to kick and jump, Miss Molly holding still his rump; Her hands in wool entangled fast; But from her gripe he broke at last, Then fir'd with rage for injur'd honour, He swore to wreak revenge upon her; And rush'd to butt with desp'rate head: Then Molly from his wrath had fled; But 'ere she cou'd begin the race, He fiercely struck her, in that place Where scoundrels take their due desert, And none but cowards will be hurt: 'Twas there he struck: Oh, fatal case! Prone fell poor Molly on her face. What beauties then the maid reveal'd? What charms which envious dress conceal'd? But not for me a heaven to paint; My pencil's dull, my colouring faint. Now, luckless chance! as thus she lay, And call'd for help, in dire dismay, The ram, his victory pursuing, As if he meant to work her ruin, With angry front her head attacks: Off fell the heaps of wool and flax: The powder flew, false hair and curls, Demolish'd all, around he whirls. But in the pack his horns were caught; He toss'd, he rag'd, to clear them, thought In vain: with hair he blinds his eyes, And clouds of powder 'round him rise; Such clouds as oft on festal night, Clothe empty heads in radiant white. Amaz'd, confus'd, perplex'd and vex'd, Like preacher who forgets his text, Now did he rub his head, now fling, Mad as a bear around a ring. But nought would do: around his horns Safe lodg'd the pack, his fury scorns. He thought the devil his foes had join'd, The hopes of farther fame resign'd, And waiting not to hear the drum beat, In haste retreated from the combat.

Dolly, who all the time, amaz'd, Upon the dreadful battle gaz'd, When now she saw the conqu'ror yield, Bearing the trophies of the field, To Molly ran, in haste; she cries, The foe is gone, dear sister rise. Then help me up, she groaning said, May I be doom'd to die a maid If 'ere I fight with rams again: My curls are scatter'd o'er the plain, Quite dirty all, my pack he bears, And on his head triumphant wears. The pack that's gone was quite too small; How then will look, no pack at all? Fashion in every thing prevails, We all are lost, if fashion fails. While others go with packs so large, They seem their heads to overcharge; And ladies' lofty tops aspire As high as grenadiers or high'r; Shall I, a little humble chit, Appear no taller than five feet? While others, powder'd, curl'd, and friz'd, Their locks do furbelow and twist, 'Till like a quick-set hedge they shew, Or bunch of briars cloth'd in snow; Shall I be seen with plain comb'd hair? A shame like that I must not bear. Oh woeful chance! the church to enter In such a garb, I cannot venture. If people only went to pray'r, Indeed, for dress I should not care. But belles you know, there are, and beaux, Who place their glory in their clothes, Who go to church to shew their beauty; Not humbly to perform their duty. How should I in their eyes appear? The end of this I ne'er should hear. Then Dolly said, your grief restrain, My dear, since now it is in vain, And let us try to make the best; on't; Else they, indeed, may make a jest on't. Shall yonder ram?—as thus she spoke, The ram, at length, the pack had broke; Before his horns the texture yields, Pins, wool, and hair embrown the fields. At once the conversation ceas'd, Poor Dolly's courage quite decreas'd, And Molly quak'd, who saw the foe Prepar'd again for deadly blow. They view his threat'ning horns with fear, Nor did they dare to venture near. 'Till he in pity to their case, Retir'd contemptuous from the place. He left, with scorn, the tatter'd pack Which he cou'd not, but they might lack. For beasts the gewgaws vile disdain, The want of which to man gives pain. The scatter'd relies then they gather, Here lay a curl, and there a feather, And here the pack to pieces torn— They pick them up, and o'er them mourn. With heavy hearts they haste away; Compell'd, that day, at home to stay. There sad they sit, and mope, and pine; Each thinks, what conquests had been mine Of lover's hearts, at church to-day, Could I have gone in fair array; In fashion's airy pride adorn'd; But now by all I shall be scorn'd. Forgotten, is my fav'rite boast To reign, an undisputed toast. The joke will spread, full well I know. That many a titt'ring belle and beau Will laugh to hear our sad disaster. Says Molly, had I but run faster, The ram had never knock'd me down, Nor had I spoil'd my Sunday gown.

Thus ends our laughable narration, Nor wants a moral application. Ye fair ones, let your heads be full Of sense, but load them not with wool. Fight not with rams to gain their fleece; Trust me, such aids can ne'er increase Your native charms: it is not art, But nature, which attracts the heart. Your flowing locks which nature gave O'er ivory necks in beauty wave: These nets of love, our souls ensnare, All unadorn'd with art or care; While pride, and pomp's fastidious train, Are parents of disgust and pain.