Will peaceably stick to our own education. 
Be pleased to allow them a place for to rest ’em,
For the rest of your trees we will never molest ’em;
A kind shelter to us and protection afford,
We’ll do you no harm, sir, I’ll give you my word. 
The good man was soon won by this plausible tale,
So fraud on good-nature doth often prevail. 
He welcomes his guest, gives him free toleration
In the midst of his garden to take up his station,
And into his breast doth his enemy bring,
He little suspected the nettle could sting. 
’Till flush’d with success, and of strength to be fear’d,
Around him a numerous offspring he rear’d. 
Then the master grew sensible what he had done,
And fain he would have his new guest to be gone;
But now ’twas too late to bid him turn out,
A well rooted possession already was got. 
The old trees decay’d, and in their room grew
A stubborn, pestilent, poisonous crew. 
The master, who first the young brood had admitted,
They stung like ingrates, and left him unpitied. 
No help from manuring or planting was found,
The ill weeds had eat out the heart of the ground. 
All weeds they let in, and none they refuse
That would join to oppose the good man of the house. 
Thus one nettle uncropp’d, increased to such store,
That ’twas nothing but weeds what was garden before.

[Footnote 1:  These verses relate to the proposed repeal of the Test Act, and may be compared with the “Fable of the Bitches,” ante, p.181.]

[Footnote 2:  In allusion to the supremacy of Rome.—­Scott.]

A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL[1]

His Grace! impossible! what, dead! 
Of old age too, and in his bed! 
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all? 
Well, since he’s gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now;
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He’d wish to sleep a little longer. 
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we’re told? 
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
’Twas time in conscience he should die! 
This world he cumber’d long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that’s the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink. 
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widows’ sighs, nor orphans’ tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse. 
But what of that? his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day. 
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died. 
  Come hither, all ye empty things! 
Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings! 
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate! 
Let Pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing’s a duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn’d to that dirt from whence he sprung.[2]