ON THE POSTERIORS

Because I am by nature blind,
I wisely choose to walk behind;
However, to avoid disgrace,
I let no creature see my face. 
My words are few, but spoke with sense;
And yet my speaking gives offence: 
Or, if to whisper I presume,
The company will fly the room. 
By all the world I am opprest: 
And my oppression gives them rest. 
  Through me, though sore against my will,
Instructors every art instil. 
By thousands I am sold and bought,
Who neither get nor lose a groat;
For none, alas! by me can gain,
But those who give me greatest pain. 
Shall man presume to be my master,
Who’s but my caterer and taster? 
Yet, though I always have my will,
I’m but a mere depender still: 
An humble hanger-on at best;
Of whom all people make a jest. 
  In me detractors seek to find
Two vices of a different kind;
I’m too profuse, some censurers cry,
And all I get, I let it fly;
While others give me many a curse,
Because too close I hold my purse. 
But this I know, in either case,
They dare not charge me to my face. 
’Tis true, indeed, sometimes I save,
Sometimes run out of all I have;
But, when the year is at an end,
Computing what I get and spend,
My goings-out, and comings-in,
I cannot find I lose or win;
And therefore all that know me say,
I justly keep the middle way. 
I’m always by my betters led;
I last get up, and first a-bed;
Though, if I rise before my time,
The learn’d in sciences sublime
Consult the stars, and thence foretell
Good luck to those with whom I dwell.

ON A HORN

The joy of man, the pride of brutes,
Domestic subject for disputes,
Of plenty thou the emblem fair,
Adorn’d by nymphs with all their care! 
I saw thee raised to high renown,
Supporting half the British crown;
And often have I seen thee grace
The chaste Diana’s infant face;
And whensoe’er you please to shine,
Less useful is her light than thine: 
Thy numerous fingers know their way,
And oft in Celia’s tresses play. 
  To place thee in another view,
I’ll show the world strange things and true;
What lords and dames of high degree
May justly claim their birth from thee! 
The soul of man with spleen you vex;
Of spleen you cure the female sex. 
Thee for a gift the courtier sends
With pleasure to his special friends: 
He gives, and with a generous pride,
Contrives all means the gift to hide: 
Nor oft can the receiver know,
Whether he has the gift or no. 
On airy wings you take your flight,
And fly unseen both day and night;
Conceal your form with various tricks;
And few know how or where you fix: 
Yet some, who ne’er bestow’d thee, boast
That they to others give thee most. 
Meantime, the wise a question start,
If thou a real being art;
Or but a creature of the brain,
That gives imaginary pain? 
But the sly giver better knows thee;
Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.