And each plump, pretty, waddling thigh,
Salted and smoak’d, shall be a ham.
Yet it is fruitless to complain:
“Death cuts down all, both great and small;”
And hope and fear alike are vain,
To those who by his stroke must fall.
Full many a hero, young and brave,
Like thee, O Hog! resign’d his breath;
The noble presents nature gave,
Form’d but a surer mark for death.