Alas! you know the cause too well.

The falt is fpilt, to me it fell.

Then to contribute to my lofs,

My knife and fork were laid across,
On friday too! the day I dread!

Would I were safe at home in bed!

Last night (I vow to Heav'n 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.

Next post some fatal news fhall tell.
God fend my Cornish friends be well!
Unhappy widow, cease thy tears,

Nor feel affliction in thy fears;

Let not thy ftomach be suspended,

Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended,

And when the butler clears the table

For thy differt I'll read my fable.

Betwixt her fwagging pannier's load

A Farmer's wife to market rode,

And,

And, jogging on, with thoughtful care
Summ'd up the profits of her ware;
When, starting from her filver dream,

Thus far and wide was heard her scream.
That raven on yon left-hand oak

(Curfe on his ill-betiding croak)

Bodes me no good. No more fhe said,
When poor blind Ball with stumbling tread

Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,

And her mash'd eggs beftrow'd the way.
She, fprawling in the yellow road,

Rail'd, fwore and curft. Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whorefon throat!

I knew misfortune in the note.

Dame, quoth the Raven, spare your oaths,
Unclench your fift, and wipe your cloaths.
But why on me those curses thrown?
Goody, the fault was all your own;

For had you laid this brittle ware

On Dun, the old fure-footed mare,

Though all the ravens of the Hundred

With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd,
Sure-footed Dun had kept his legs,
And you, good woman, fav'd your eggs.

FABLE

Each little speck and blemish find,
To our own ftronger errors blind.

L 3

eye,

A

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,

Forfook the barn and fought the wood,

Behind her ran her infant train,

Collecting here and there a grain.

Draw near, my birds, the mother cries, This hill delicious fare fupplies;

Behold, the bufy Negro race,

See, millions blacken all the place!

Fear not. Like me with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat.

How bleft, how envy'd were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poult'rer's knife!
But man, curst man on turkeys preys,
And Christmas fhortens all our days;
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes affift the fav'ry chine.
From the low peasant to the lord,
The turkey fmoaks on ev'ry board.

Sure