Classic Poem

A bitch that was full pregnant grown,
By all the dogs and curs in town;
Finding her ripened time was come,
Her litter teeming from her womb,
Went here and there, and everywhere,
To find an easy place to lay her.

At length to Music's house she came,
And begged like one both blind and lame;
'My only friend, my dear,' said she,
'You see 'tis mere necessity,
Hath sent me to your house to whelp,
I'll die, if you deny your help.'

With fawning whine, and rueful tone,
With artful sigh and feignèd groan,
With couchant cringe, and flattering tale,
Smooth Bawty did so far prevail;
That Music gave her leave to litter,
But mark what followed--faith, she bit her.

Whole baskets full of bits and scraps,
And broth enough to fill her paps,
For well she knew her numerous brood,
For want of milk, would suck her blood.

But when she thought her pains were done,
And now 'twas high time to be gone;
In civil terms, 'My friend,' says she,
'My house you've had on courtesy;
And now I earnestly desire,
That you would with your cubs retire:
For should you stay but one week longer,
I shall be starved with cold and hunger.'

The guest replied, 'My friend, your leave,
I must a little longer crave;
Stay till my tender cubs can find
Their way--for now you see they're blind;
But when we've gathered strength, I swear,
We'll to our barn again repair.'

The time passed on, and Music came,
Her kennel once again to claim;
But Bawty, lost to shame and honour,
Set her cubs at once upon her;
Made her retire, and quit her right,
And loudly cried 'A bite, a bite.'
THE MORAL

Thus did the Grecian wooden horse,
Conceal a fatal armed force;
No sooner brought within the walls,
But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.