Oh Muse, ascend the forked mount.
And lofty strains prepare,
About a Baron and a Count,
Who went to hunt the hare.
The hare she ran with utmost speed,
And sad, and anxious looks,
Because the furious hounds indeed,
Were near to her, gadzooks.
At length, the Count and Baron bold
Their footsteps homeward bended;
For why, because, as you were told,
The hunting it was ended.
Before them strait a youth appears,
Who made a piteous pother,
And told a tale with many tears,
About his dying mother.
The youth was in severe distress,
And seem’d as he had spent all,
He look’d a soldier by his dress;
For that was regimental.
The Baron’s heart was full of ruth,
While from his eye fell brine o!
And soon he gave the mournful youth
A little ready rino.
He gave a shilling as I live,
Which, sure, was mighty well;
But to some people if you give
An inch—they’ll take an ell.
The youth then drew his martial knife,
And seiz’d the Baron’s collar,
He swore he’d have the Baron’s life,
Or else another dollar.
Then did the Baron in a fume,
Soon raise a mighty din,
Whereon came butler, huntsman, groom,
And eke the whipper-in.
Maugre this young man’s warlike coat,
They bore him off to prison;
And held so strongly by his throat,
They almost stopt his whizzen.
Soon may a neckcloth, call’d a rope,
Of robbing cure this elf;
If so I’ll write, without a trope,
His dying speech myself.
And had the Baron chanc’d to die,
Oh! grief to all the nation,
I must have made an elegy,
And not this fine narration.
MORAL.
Henceforth let those who all have spent,
And would by begging live,
Take warning here, and be content,
With what folks chuse to give.
AMELIA.
Your muse, Mr. Butler, is in a very inventive humour this morning.
MR. ANHALT.
And your tale too improbable, even for fiction.
BUTLER.
Improbable! It’s a real fact.
AMELIA.
What, a robber in our grounds, at noon-day? Very likely indeed!
BUTLER.
I don’t say it was likely—I only say it is true.
MR. ANHALT.
No, no, Mr. Verdun, we find no fault with your poetry; but don’t attempt to impose it upon us for truth.
AMELIA.
Poets are allowed to speak falsehood, and we forgive yours.