The Ploughman and The Thrush

THE birds were warbling in the trees,
The pure and healthy morning breeze
Shed fragrance as it lightly flew,
Stol'n from the floweret tipt with dew.
        A Ploughman sullenly pass'd by,
With heavy step and languid eye:
"Alas!" said he, "how shrill the sound
"Those noisy songsters pour around.
"Hush, hush!" impatiently he cry'd.
        "Pray, friend, for what?" a Thrush reply'd:
"Why dost thou silence thus impose?
"Why knit thy brows, with look morose?

"What is your cause for discontent?"
        "I want two pounds to pay my rent,"
The Ploughman earnestly reply'd.
"How happy you, who well supply'd,
"Have choice of food, and choice of trees,
"And build and warble where you please.
"Then do not bid me be content,
"While I have nought to pay my rent."
        Assembled now the feather'd crew,
Some this way, some the other flew;
All were astonished to find
A being of superior kind,
So discontented at his state;
And thinking theirs a better fate,
"How hard," they cry'd," this mortal's lot,
"Oblig'd to give what he has not;
"Better we are, in truth, than he,
"And happy surely birds should be,
"Who unmolested live so gay,
"And sing, and frolic where they may."

        A Morn or two was scarcely by,
When came the Ploughman merrily,
Not like the man of discontent,
He sang, and whistled as he went.
The birds all in a flutter seem'd,
They really almost thought they dream'd:
The Thrush beg'd eagerly to know
The reason he was alter'd so.
        Pleas'd at the happy turn of fate,
The Ploughman told his change of state:
"Providence," said he, "has granted
"That assistance which I wanted;
"For digging up my bit of ground,
"A little 'bacco box I found,
"In it, as I am here alive,
"Two guineas were, and shillings five;
"So off I ran, and paid my rent,
"And here you see me quite content."

        "Then," cry'd the Thrush, "you ne'er again
"Must be so hasty to complain:
"The birds you envy'd in despair,
"Don't always breathe a pleasant air:
"Whilst thou, froward and uneasy,
"When things happen not to please thee,
"Betray a discontented mind,
"Forgetting Providence is kind."

MORAL.

He who reflects how much is granted,
Will not regret the trifle wanted,

Original fables by a Lady

Printed by W. Calvert, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn, for B. Crosby and Co. London, 1810

To your Royal Highness the following Fables are dedicated, with a wish that in an interval of leisure some transient amusement may be obtained.