THE FOX AND THE BRAMBLES 



The prickly thicket o'er him closes ; 



To him it seem'd a bed of roses, 



As there he lay and heard around 



The baying of the baffled hound. 



Within that bush, his fears allay'd. 



He many a sage reflection made ; 



" 'Tis true, whene'er I stir," he cried, 



" The brambles wound my bleeding side, 



" He must not who would safety gain 



" Whate'er his hiding place complain, 



" Howe'er unpleasant this retreat, 



" Yet every bitter has its sweet ; 



" The brambles pierce my skin, no doubt, 



" The hounds had torn my entrails out." 



Good farmers ! read, nor take amiss. 



The moral which I draw from this ; 



Grieve not o'er gap or broken gate ; 



The damage small, the profit great ; 



The love of sport to home brings down 



Your Landlord from the smoky town, 



To dwell and spend his rents among 



The tenantry, from whom they sprung. 



Though vainly when he leads the chase, 



His willing steed urged on apace, 



When scent is good and hounds are fleet. 



Though vainly then you shout, " Ware wheat ! " 



That steed, perchance, by you was bred. 



And yours the corn on which he's fed ; 



Ah ! then restrain your rising ire, 



Nor rashly damn the Hunting Squire. 



