Scarce warm when smoth'red in his drowsy fur;
Not proof against keen Winter's batteries
120Should he himself wear all 's own liveries,
But chilblains under silver spurs bewails
And in embroid'red buckskins blows his nails.
Rich meadows and full crops are elsewhere found:
We can reap harvest from our barren ground.
The bald parched hills that circumscribe our Tyne
Are no less fruitful in their hungry mine.
Their unfledged tops so well content our palates,