You have misfortunes; why should I repine?
We’re born for food to man, full well I know;
But may your fate, ah! never be like mine,
A poor old Goose, of misery and woe.
A numerous flock elected me their Queen;
I then was held of all our race the pride;
When a bold Gander, waddling from Brook Green,
Declar’d his love, and I became his bride.
Goslings we had, dear comforts of my life;