June 27, 1760.
IF we, like men, could envy and malign,
At Nature’s, or at Fortune’s gifts repine;
When great be insolent, when little mean,
When rich and fat disdain the poor and lean.
Then might I, puisny Busy, thy vast size
Contemplate, mighty hound, with grieving eyes:
Thy strength, thy nose sagacious, snow-white coat,
And most the tuneful thunder of thy throat;
Then might I, Busy, deck’d with em’ralds, scorn
The starv’ling puppy gnawing a stag’s horn
Beneath the hovel, red with ash of peat,
And think the wretch as odious as his meat:
But nor contempt nor envy shook my breast,
Thee I admir’d, and Empress I carest,
Tho’ in her nonage the poor simple whelp
Kept no decorums, and scarce knew to yelp;
Empress may prove the terror of the wood,
For Empress, mighty Snowball’s of thy blood.
Say, did I not accept at romps a game
With the black young cur? I forget his name.
His life in dirt and poverty begun,
Yet he may rise the fav’rite of the gun.
And I’ve heard it said where I have din’d,
That true distinction amongst human kind
Lies in the qualities, and in the mind.
O Snowball! with what pleasure I confess
Thy condescension to my littleness;
When on the floor I dar’d approach thee near,
And gaz’d on the fine lappet of thine ear,
(At thy fair temples then my sattin hue
Seemed a black modish patch to distant view)
To lick thy chaps, to pinch thy spacious paws,
Unfear’d the range of jav’lins in thy jaws;
Or on my hindlegs bolt upright, have tried
To reach the curious flavour of thy hide,
Thou did’st not growl, thou did’st not swing a tail
Might snap my ribs as ears of corn the flail;
Conscious what dignity from goodness springs,
And much too great to spurn at tiny things.
All homage may your grandeur long receive
From lap-dogs due, and long unrival’d live,
Be stroak’d, be fed by that accomplish’d hand,
Whose pen, my master says, adorns the land.
O happy Snowball! happy Cranbourn wood!
Too happy rustics, did ye know your good!
Lo! the tenth Muse illuminates your cot;
Ah, wretched rustics,—ye perceive her not!
Eat, Snowball, legs of mutton, while small I
Crack biscuit, gingerbread, and crust of pye;
Or lap the remnants of the milky bowl,
Which none on earth shall ever prove I stole.
Joy thou in Windsor’s verdant park and air,
Pursue the chase, and in the daughter share;
Live in the favour of that learned fair.
If my dear mistress smiles and pats my head,
If she vouchsafes a corner of her bed,
Busy’s content, and to her latest gasp
Will taste the happiness within her grasp.