To the Keeper of the King's Water Works

Can he, who o'er two Indies holds the sway,
Where'er the ocean flows, whose fleets patrole,
Who bids Hibernia's rugged sons obey,
And at whose nod (you say) shakes either pole:--

Can he, whose crown a thousand jewels grace
Of worth untold--can he, so rich, deny
One wretched puncheon from this ample waste,
Begg'd by his quondam subject--very dry?

Vast are the springs in yonder cloud-capt hill:
Why, then, refuse the abundant flowing wave?
Where hogs, and dogs, and keepers drink their fill,
May we not something from such plenty crave?

Keeper!--must we with empty cask return!
Just view the limpid stream that runs to waste!--
Denied the stream that flows from Nature's urn,
By locks and bolts secur'd from rebel taste?

Well!--if we must, inform the royal ear,
Poor are some kings that now in Britain live:
Tell him, that Nature is no miser here;
Tell him--that he withholds--what beggars give.