Reel at the shock which lays them low;
That as they hang, as cold as clay,
Ten thousand more receive the blow!
All pity’s fled, when (at the fire,)
Leg, loin, or shoulder’s on the spit,
To grace the table of the squire—
Surrounded by things amply fit.
Where they were born, or how they live,
On what they feed, or how they die,
Or how the little creatures grieve