Classic Poem

Village! thy butcher's son, the steward now,
Still bears the butcher on his burly brow.
Oft with his sire he deigns to ride and stare;
And who like them, at market or at fair?
King of the Inn, he takes the highest place,
And carves the goose, and grimly growls the grace.
There in the loud debate, with might — with might,
Still speaks he last, and conquers still the right;
Red as a lobster, vicious as his horse,
That, like its master, worships fraud and force,
And if the stranger 'scape its kick or bite,
Low'rs its vexed ears, and screams for very spite.
" He hath enough, thank God, to wear and eat;
He gives no alms" — not e'en his putrid meat;
" But keeps his cab, whips beggars from his door,
Votes for my Lord, and hates the thankless poor."