PARODY ON THE CITY AND COUNTRY MOUSE.

A Country vicar in his homely house,
 Pleas'd with his lot, and happy in his spouse,
 With simple diet, at his humble board,
 Once entertain'd the chaplain of a lord; —
 He gave him (all he could) a little fish,
 With sauce of oysters, in no silver dish;
 And, for the craving stomach's sure relief,
 The glory of Old England, rare Roast-beef,
 Horse-radish and potatoes, Ireland's pride;
 A pudding too the prudent dame supply'd:
 Their cheering beverage was a pint of port
 (Tho' small the quantum) of the better sort;
 But plenty of good beer, both small and stout,
 With wine of elder to prevent the gout. 
The vicar hop'd, by such a various treat,
 To tempt his scarf-embellish'd friend to eat;
 With nicest bits provok'd his guest to dine,
 He carv'd the haddock, and he serv'd the wine:
 Content his own sharp stomach to regale
 With plain, substantial roast-meat and mild ale. 
Our courtly chaplain, as we may suppose,
 At such old-fashion'd commons curl'd his nose;
 He tried in vain to piddle, and, in brief,
 Pish'd at the pudding, and declin'd the beef;
 At length, their homely dinner finish'd quite,
 Thus to the vicar spoke the priest polite:

 'How can my brother in this paltry town
' Live undistinguish'd, to the world unknown? 
 'And not exalt your towering genius higher,
' Than here to herd with country clown — or squire;
 'Stunn'd with the discord of hoarse cawing rooks,
' The roar of winds, the dissonance of brooks,
 'Which discontented thro' the valley stray,
' Plaintive and murmuring at their long delay. 
 'Come, come with me, nor longer here abide;
' You've friends in town, and I will be your guide:
 'Soon great preferment to your share will fall,
' A good fat living, or perhaps — a stall. ' 

These weighty reasons sway'd the vicar's mind —
 To town he hied, but left his wife behind: —
 Next levee day he waited on his Grace,
 With hundreds more, who bow'd to get a place;
 Shov'd in the croud, he stood amaz'd to see
 Lords who to Baal bent the supple knee,
 And doctors sage he could not but admire,
 Who stoop'd profoundly low — to rise the higher. 
So much of ermine, lace, beaus, bishops, young and old,
 'Twas like a cloud of sable edg'd with gold:
 By turns his Grace the servile train addrest,
 Pleas'd with a smile, or in a whisper blest. 
Sick of the scene, the vicar sought the door,
 Determin'd never to see London more;
 But, as his friend had pleas'd the hour to fix,
 First went to dinner to my Lord's at six; —
 He knock'd — was usher'd to the room of state,
 (My Lord abroad) and dinner serv'd in plate;
 Which, tho' it seem'd but common soup and hash,
 Was really callipee and callipash,
 (The relicks of the gaudy day before)
 What Indians eat, and Englishmen adore;
 With bright champaign the courtier crown'd the feast,
 Sooth'd his own pride, and gratify'd his guest:
 All this conspir'd our Stoic to controul,
 And warpt the steady purpose of his soul —
 When lo! the cry of fire creates amaze —
 "The next house, Lady Riot's, in a blaze"—
 Aghast the vicar stood, in wild affright,
 Then briefly thus address'd the priest polite:
 "Adieu, my friend — your state I envy not —
"Beef, liberty, and safety be my lot. "