TO A HOG—ON HIS BIRTH-DAY
Never as yet the unjust muse
(As if by those old precepts bound
Which tie the superstitious Jews,)
One line to praise a Hog has found.
Never till now, as I remember,
Has any poet sung a swine,
O, Hog! this twentieth of November,
I celebrate—the day is thine.
Three years ago thy little eyes
Peep’d on the day with optics weak;
Three years ago thy infant cries,
By mortal men were call’d a squeak.
Ev’n then the muse prophetic saw
Thy youthful days, thy latter state,
And sigh’d at the relentless law,
That doom’d thee to an early fate.
Yes, the fond muse has anxious look’d,
While thou a roaster, careless play’dst,
Thoughtless how soon thou might’st be cook’d,
(A fine appearance then thou mad’st.)
The dangers of a roasting past,
She saw thee rear’d a handsome shoat;
Saw thee a full-grown hog at last,
And heard thee grunt a deeper note.
Thy charms mature with joy she view’d,
As waddling on short legs about,
Or rolling in delicious mud,
Or rooting with sagacious snout.
But thy last hour is near at hand;
Before a year, a month, a week,
Is past, ’tis Fate’s severe command,
That death shall claim thy latest squeak.
And this shall be thy various doom;
Thou shalt be roasted, fry’d and boil’d,
Black puddings shall thy blood become,
Thy lifeless flesh shall pork be styl’d:
Thy ears and feet in souse shall lie;
Minc’d sausage meat thy guts shall cram;
And each plump, pretty, waddling thigh,
Salted and smoak’d, shall be a ham.
Yet it is fruitless to complain:
“Death cuts down all, both great and small;”
And hope and fear alike are vain,
To those who by his stroke must fall.
Full many a hero, young and brave,
Like thee, O Hog! resign’d his breath;
The noble presents nature gave,
Form’d but a surer mark for death.
Achilles met an early doom;
Euryalus and Nisus, young,
Were slain; but honour’d was their tomb;
That, Homer, these, sweet Maro sung.
On the rude cliffs of proud Quebec,
In glory’s arm Montgomery dy’d;
And Freedom’s genius loves to deck
His early grave with verdant pride.
Nor shalt thou want a sprig of bays
To crown thy name. When set agog,
The muse shall tune eccentric lays,
And, pleas’d, immortalize a Hog.
NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.
The New-York Weekly Magazine;OR, MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY. | ||
| Vol. II.] | WEDNESDAY, April26, 1797. | [No. 95. |
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.