Then will they turn to fields of BARLEY,
Bearded and barbed with many an ARROW,
Just where the fertile soil is marly,
And in the spring was used the harrow.
Drawn by the steeds in coats of VELVET,
Old Steady, Jack, and Slattern,
Their manes well combed, and black as jet,
Their tails in the same PATTERN.
While Richard's son, with pipe of PAN,
His hands within his POCKETS,
Walks close beside the old plough-man,
Dreaming of squibs and rockets.
That youth, he greatly loves his ease,
He's growing much too fat,
And though as strong as HERCULES,
He'll only use his BAT.
He won't sweep up the autumn LEAVES,
The tree's deciduous ARMOUR,
No scolding Dickey's spirit grieves
Like working like a farmer,
Or labouring like his cousin GEORGE,
With arms all bare and brawny,
Within the blacksmith's glowing forge;
He would be in the ARMY.
But no, young Dick, you're not the man
Our realms to watch and ward,
For worse than a LEVIATHAN
You'd dread the foe's REAR-GUARD,
And in the storm of shot and SHELL,
You'd soon desert your pennant,
Care nought for serjeant, corporal,
Or general LIEUTENANT,
But prove yourself quite swift and nimble,
And thus would meet your END;
No, better take a tailor's THIMBLE
And learn your ways to mend.
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