and hogg—the poet—nothing but a hog!

as to all others on the list of fame,

although they were discuss’d and mention’d daily,

he only recognised one classic name,

and thought that she had hung herself—miss baillie!

to balance this, our farmer’s only daughter

had a great taste for the castalian water—

a wordsworth worshipper—a southey wooer,—

(though men that deal in water-colour cakes

may disbelieve the fact—yet nothing’s truer)

she got the bluer

the more she dipped and dabbled in the lakes.

the secret truth is, hope, the old deceiver,

at future authorship was apt to hint,

producing what some call the type-us fever,

which means a burning to be seen in print.

of learning’s laurels—miss joanna baillie—

of mrs. hemans—mrs. wilson—daily

dreamt anne priscilla isabella grayley;

and fancy hinting that she had the better

of l.e.l. by one initial letter,

she thought the world would quite enraptur’d see

“love lays and lyrics

by

a p i g.”

accordingly, with very great propriety,

she joined the h. n. b. and double s.,

that is,—hog’s norton blue stocking society;

and saving when her pa his pigs prohibited,

contributed

her pork and poetry towards the mess.

[pg 117]

this feast, we said, one friday was the case

when farmer grayley—from macbeth to quote—

screwing his courage to the “sticking place,”

stuck a large knife into a grunter’s throat;—

a kind of murder that the law’s rebuke

seldom condemns by shake of its peruke,

showing the little sympathy of big-wigs

with pig-wigs!

the swine—poor wretch!—with nobody to speak for it,

and beg its life, resolved to have a squeak for it;

so—like the fabled swan—died singing out,

and, thus, there issued from the farmer’s yard

a note that notified without a card,

an invitation to the evening rout.