Poems (Sherwin)/The nightingale and the pig
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE PIG.
A FABLE.
Once on a time, so goes the tale,
Within a little peaceful vale,
There lived a pig of some renown,
Much polished, though not near a town;
Full of himself as pig could be,
Aspiring, but a debaucheé.
And when quite young was fain to vaunt
Of brilliant parts, as pigs are wont;
He every morning swilled his hide,
And in appearance took much pride.
Then o'er the fields and meadows round,
With stately step and look profound,
He'd wander forth and crop the flowers,
Enjoy the sunbeams and the showers.
So pass the day 'till evening close,
Then on the softest grass repose.
Within a little peaceful vale,
There lived a pig of some renown,
Much polished, though not near a town;
Full of himself as pig could be,
Aspiring, but a debaucheé.
And when quite young was fain to vaunt
Of brilliant parts, as pigs are wont;
He every morning swilled his hide,
And in appearance took much pride.
Then o'er the fields and meadows round,
With stately step and look profound,
He'd wander forth and crop the flowers,
Enjoy the sunbeams and the showers.
So pass the day 'till evening close,
Then on the softest grass repose.
It chanced one gentle summer's night,
When earth was dressed in silver light,
And stars were glittering in the sky,
And softest breezes fluttered by,
A nightingale, with dulcet sound,
Awoke the slumbering echoes round;
And as the soft hours rolled along,
Poured forth her sweet melodious song;
The pig, in sentimental mind,
To love and listen felt inclined;
Till quite enchanted with her song,
Near her he lingered all day long;
And when each shade of gray was gone,
And morn her living light put on,
Towards the bower he gently press'd,
Where Philomel had sunk to rest,
And gazed, in admiration deep,
Upon the songster in her sleep;
Nor moved he till noon's sultry hour
Spread forth its beams on tree and flower,
And sounds of busy day were heard,
Which roused the gently slumbering bird.
When earth was dressed in silver light,
And stars were glittering in the sky,
And softest breezes fluttered by,
A nightingale, with dulcet sound,
Awoke the slumbering echoes round;
And as the soft hours rolled along,
Poured forth her sweet melodious song;
The pig, in sentimental mind,
To love and listen felt inclined;
Till quite enchanted with her song,
Near her he lingered all day long;
And when each shade of gray was gone,
And morn her living light put on,
Towards the bower he gently press'd,
Where Philomel had sunk to rest,
And gazed, in admiration deep,
Upon the songster in her sleep;
Nor moved he till noon's sultry hour
Spread forth its beams on tree and flower,
And sounds of busy day were heard,
Which roused the gently slumbering bird.
Away, away from tree to tree,
With fairy lightness, full of glee,
Free as the wind, she fluttered round,
Swam through the air or swept the ground,
Till eve once more her curtains drew,
And sprinkled earth with chrystal dew;
And then the light and happy bird
Regained her bower. Once more was heard
In softly modulated strain,
The nightly song o'er dell and plain.
Again the lovesick hog drew nigh,
And with a fond, a deep drawn sigh,
In language feigned his suit preferred,
And thus addressed the tuneful bird:—
"Oh, loveliest songster of the vale,
Deign but to listen to my tale;
For thee I pine—for thee I burn,—
Oh, grant my love a kind return;
For my warm panting bosom bears
A heart which loftiest pleasure shares;
And, spite of nature too, my mind
Soars far above my groveling kind.
Oh, condescend to be my wife,
And I through every change of life
Will watchful, fond, and faithful be,
Affectionate and kind to thee.
With choicest food thy bower I'll fill,
And lead thee to the clearest rill;
Thy slave through all the live day long,
At night a listener to thy song.
Then say, dear bird, wilt thou be mine,
Break not a heart so truly thine."
With fairy lightness, full of glee,
Free as the wind, she fluttered round,
Swam through the air or swept the ground,
Till eve once more her curtains drew,
And sprinkled earth with chrystal dew;
And then the light and happy bird
Regained her bower. Once more was heard
In softly modulated strain,
The nightly song o'er dell and plain.
Again the lovesick hog drew nigh,
And with a fond, a deep drawn sigh,
In language feigned his suit preferred,
And thus addressed the tuneful bird:—
"Oh, loveliest songster of the vale,
Deign but to listen to my tale;
For thee I pine—for thee I burn,—
Oh, grant my love a kind return;
For my warm panting bosom bears
A heart which loftiest pleasure shares;
And, spite of nature too, my mind
Soars far above my groveling kind.
Oh, condescend to be my wife,
And I through every change of life
Will watchful, fond, and faithful be,
Affectionate and kind to thee.
With choicest food thy bower I'll fill,
And lead thee to the clearest rill;
Thy slave through all the live day long,
At night a listener to thy song.
Then say, dear bird, wilt thou be mine,
Break not a heart so truly thine."
At first the bird, like bashful maid,
Was distant, shy, and seemed afraid.
What more he said—what more he did,
Must in oblivion now be hid;
But ultimately—conquering strife—
The pig and bird were man and wife.
Was distant, shy, and seemed afraid.
What more he said—what more he did,
Must in oblivion now be hid;
But ultimately—conquering strife—
The pig and bird were man and wife.
'Twas well enough while tilings were new.
But Mr. Hog soon careless grew;
Forgetting what fine things he'd said,
With all the promises he'd made.
And as by early habits trained,
In mire and dirt he still remained
The same; and soon, by instinct led,
From every sylvan scene he fled,—
The fields and flowers he left behind,
And herded only with his kind.
But Mr. Hog soon careless grew;
Forgetting what fine things he'd said,
With all the promises he'd made.
And as by early habits trained,
In mire and dirt he still remained
The same; and soon, by instinct led,
From every sylvan scene he fled,—
The fields and flowers he left behind,
And herded only with his kind.
With bitter grief the astonished wife
Soon found herself a slave for life:
Still she exerted all her power,
To render sweet her woodland bower;
Tried every means her spouse to please,
Pictured a life of bliss and ease,
And fondly soothed him all day long;
Tried reason's power—tried sweetest song—
But saw 'twas useless, and grew mute,—
For who can reason with a brute?
So gentle and so mild was she,—
So rough, so brutalized was he,
In stuffing morning, noon and night,—
To eat and drink all his delight,
And, with companions like himself,
He grew a beastly sottish elf,
For ever rolling in the mire,
With language foul in bitter ire.
Blaspheming ever, still in strife,
Abusing all, but most his wife.
Soon found herself a slave for life:
Still she exerted all her power,
To render sweet her woodland bower;
Tried every means her spouse to please,
Pictured a life of bliss and ease,
And fondly soothed him all day long;
Tried reason's power—tried sweetest song—
But saw 'twas useless, and grew mute,—
For who can reason with a brute?
So gentle and so mild was she,—
So rough, so brutalized was he,
In stuffing morning, noon and night,—
To eat and drink all his delight,
And, with companions like himself,
He grew a beastly sottish elf,
For ever rolling in the mire,
With language foul in bitter ire.
Blaspheming ever, still in strife,
Abusing all, but most his wife.
The fated nightingale grew sad,
And pined, though all around was glad;
She sighed, with aching heart, to be
As erst, unshackled, wild and free.
How ardently she longed to fly,
And skim again the clear blue sky,—
To gain once more her native bower,
And taste the sweets of mead and flower;
But firm was tied old Hymen's knot,
Fluttering and struggling mattered not,—
It never made her woes the lighter,
And only pulled the noose still tighter.
No soft companion of her kind,
Was ever near to sooth her mind;
All—all had flown—affrighted by
The growling hog's brutality,
At each complaint the songster uttered.
Pig only grunted, kicked and sputtered.
Quickly the gentle creature's song
Was hushed, and as time rolled along,
She grieved alone, unseen, unheard,
A drooping solitary bird.
But soon the welcome hand of death
Received her last faint parting breath;
Like shadows at the close of day,
She sickened, faded, pass'd away.
And pined, though all around was glad;
She sighed, with aching heart, to be
As erst, unshackled, wild and free.
How ardently she longed to fly,
And skim again the clear blue sky,—
To gain once more her native bower,
And taste the sweets of mead and flower;
But firm was tied old Hymen's knot,
Fluttering and struggling mattered not,—
It never made her woes the lighter,
And only pulled the noose still tighter.
No soft companion of her kind,
Was ever near to sooth her mind;
All—all had flown—affrighted by
The growling hog's brutality,
At each complaint the songster uttered.
Pig only grunted, kicked and sputtered.
Quickly the gentle creature's song
Was hushed, and as time rolled along,
She grieved alone, unseen, unheard,
A drooping solitary bird.
But soon the welcome hand of death
Received her last faint parting breath;
Like shadows at the close of day,
She sickened, faded, pass'd away.
MORAL.
Ye gentle maids, who now regard
A single state as very hard,
And with a husband hope to find
More bliss of heart, more peace of mind,
Be cautious how you choose a mate—
Scan well to whom you link your fate:
Avoid the strutting, whiskered elf,
Who blusters and extols himself,
Who visits inns each night, and swears;
Love's eating, drinking, and cigars;
Or to repent you'll never fail,—
Be wise,—think of the nightingale.
A single state as very hard,
And with a husband hope to find
More bliss of heart, more peace of mind,
Be cautious how you choose a mate—
Scan well to whom you link your fate:
Avoid the strutting, whiskered elf,
Who blusters and extols himself,
Who visits inns each night, and swears;
Love's eating, drinking, and cigars;
Or to repent you'll never fail,—
Be wise,—think of the nightingale.