He sits like Patience grinning on his nag.
Thus, wisdom-fraught, his curious eye-balls ken
The little hovels that around him rise:
To these he trots—of hogs surveys the styes,
And nicely numbers every cock and hen.
Then asks the farmer’s wife or farmer’s maid,
How many eggs the fowls have laid.
What’s in the oven—in the pot—the crock;
Whether ’twill rain or no, and what’s o’clock.
Thus from poor hovels gleaning information,