Classic Poem

FABLE XXXVIII.

I N other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little speck and blemish find,
To our own stronger errors blind.

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood,
Behind her ran her infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.
Draw near, my birds, the mother cries,
This hill delicious fare supplies;
Behold, the busy Negro race,
See, millions blacken all the place!
Fear not. Like me, with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat.
How blest, how envy'd were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poult'rer's knife!
But man, curst man on turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days;
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the sav'ry chine.
From the low peasant to the lord,
The turkey smoaks on ev'ry board.
Sure men for gluttony are curst,
Of the sev'n deadly sins the worst.
An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach,
Thus answer'd from the neighb'ring beech.
Ere you remark another's sin.
Bid thy own conscience look within.
Controul thy more voracious bill,
Nor for a breakfast nations kill.