Hearing no news of nimble Mister Stag,
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,
To serve as future treasure for the nation.
There, terrier-like, till pages find him out,
He pokes his most sagacious nose about;
And scenes in Paradise—like that so fam'd;
Looking like Adam too, and Eve so fair;
Sweet simpletons! who, though so bare,
Were (says the Bible) not asham'd.
No man binds books so well as George the Third.
By thirst of leather glory spurr'd,
At bookbinders he oft is seen to laugh—
And wond'rous is the King in sheep or calf!
But see! the Prince upon such labour looks
Fastidious down, and only readeth books.
Here by the Sire the son is much surpast;
Which fame should publish on her loudest blast I
The King beats Monmouth-street in cast-off riches;
That is, in coats, and waistcoats, and in breeches;
Which, draughted once a year for foreign stations,
Make fine recruits to serve some near relations.
But lo! the Prince, shame on him ! never dreams
Of petty Jewish, economic schemes!
So very proud (I'm griev'd, O Tom, to tell it)
He'd rather give a coat away than sell it!
Fair justice to the Monarch must allow
Prodigious science in a calf or cow;
And wisdom in an article of swine.
What most unusual knowledge for a King!
Because pig-wisdom is a thing
In which no Sov'reign e'er were known to shine.
Yet who 'will think I am not telling fibs?
The Prince, who Britain's throne in time shall grace,
Ne'er finger’d, at a fair, a bullock's ribs,
Nor even ogled a pig's face!
O dire disgrace! O let it not be known
That thus a Father hath excell'd a Son.
