| |
| IN every country village, where | |
| Ten chimney smokes perfume the air, | |
| Contiguous to a steeple, | |
| Great gentlefolks are found, a score, | |
| Who can’t associate, any more, | 5 |
| With common “country people.” | |
| |
| Jack Fallow, born amongst the woods, | |
| From rolling logs, now rolls in goods, | |
| Enough awhile to dash on— | |
| Tells negro stories—smokes segars— | 10 |
| Talks politics—decides on wars— | |
| And lives in stylish fashion. | |
| |
| Tim Ox-goad, lately from the plough, | |
| A polish’d gentleman is now, | |
| And talks of “country fellows;” | 15 |
| But ask the fop what books he ’s read— | |
| You ’ll find the brain-pan of his head | |
| As empty as a bellows. | |
| |
| Miss Faddle, lately from the wheel, | |
| Begins quite lady-like to feel, | 20 |
| And talks affectedly genteel, | |
| And sings some tasty songs, too; | |
| But my veracity impeach, | |
| If she can tell what part of speech | |
| Gentility belongs to. | 25 |
| |
| Without one spark of wit refined, | |
| Without one beauty of the mind— | |
| Genius or education, | |
| Or family, or fame, to boast, | |
| To see such gentry rule the roast, | 30 |
| Turns patience to vexation. | |
| |
| To clear such rubbish from the earth, | |
| Though real genius—mental worth, | |
| And science to attend you, | |
| You might as well the sty refine, | 35 |
| Or cast your pearls before the swine, | |
| They ’d only turn and rend you. | |
| |
