The Shropshire Goose

A Shropshire goose, urg'd t'other day To waddle in parade, Meeting a peacock on the way, Besought his friendly aid.

For, grown beside a filthy lake Most wond'rous foul and fusty, Droll was the figure she did make With plumage bare and rusty.

The peacock, hearing her bewail, And mov'd, tho proud, to pity, Shook the loose feathers from his tail, And dress'd her somewhat pretty.

This done, she turn'd her rump about And saw it made so fine, "D—n it," says she, "the world will doubt "These feathers being mine.

"Tho stolen plumes I safely wear, "It mayn't be safe to borrow.— "But hold—disguis'd with proper care, "They won't be known to-morrow."

Displaying, then, a goose's taste And rumpilng ev'ry feather, She sought the muddy pool in haste And plaister'd them together.

Dy'd slut in grain, the dirty elf Thus spoilt the decent madam; Her plumes no credit to herself, Nor him from whom she had 'em.