A ‘Squire, who long had fed on ale,
(Or thick or clear, or mild or stale,
Concerns us not) a hunting goes,
Last Thursday morn’ e’er Phoebus rose,
Headlong he rides full many a mile,
O’er many a hedge, and many a stile;
Dire horror spread where’er he came,
And frighten’d all his lordship’s game:
Nay hares and foxes yet unborn
May rue the hunting of that morn’.
A luckless hare at length pass’d by;
The dogs take scent, away they fly;
Tears and intreaties come too late,
Poor puss, alas! Submits to fate.
One boon she begs before she dies,
“And pray what’s that?” the squire replies.
Only when this my house of clay
Shall to the hounds become a prey,
(As soon, ah cruel hounds! It must)
And these sad eyes return to dust;
May this my last request be heard,
And decently my corps interr’d
Within a concave basket’s womb,
With this inscription on my tomb;
“To Mrs. Clayton, Poland Street-
Bear me, ye porters! While I’m sweet.”
And now farewell what once was mine!
With pleasure I these fields resign:
Happy, if that good lady owns
My flesh was good, and picks my bones.
(Mary Jones)
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