The Fox and the Hen

A Fable.

'TWAS on a fair and healthy Plain,
There liv'd a poor but honest Swain,
Had to his Lot a little Ground,
Defended by a quick-set Mound:
'Twas there he milk'd his brindled Kine,
And there he fed his harmless Swine:
His Pigeons flutter'd to and fro,
And bask'd his Poultry in a Row:
Much we might say of each of these,
As how his Pigs in Consort wheeze;
How the sweet Hay his Heifers chew,
And how the Pigeons softly coo:
But we shall wave this motley Strain,
And keep to one that's short and plain:
Nor paint the Dunghill's feather'd King,
For of the Hen we mean to sing.

A Hen there was, a strange one too,
Cou'd sing (believe me, it is true)
Or rather (as you may presume)
Wou'd prate and cackle in a Tune:
This quickly spread the Pullet's Fame,
And Birds and Beasts together came:
All mixt in one promiscuous Throng,
To visit Partlet and her Song.
It chanc'd there came amongst the Crew,
Of witty Foxes not a few:
But one more smart than all the rest,
His serious Neighbour thus addrest:
' What think you of this Partlet here?
' 'Tis true her Voice is pretty clear:
' Yet without pausing I can tell,
' In what much more she wou'd excel:
' Methinks she'd eat exceeding well.
This heard the list'ning Hen, as she
Sat perch'd upon a Maple-tree.

The shrewd Proposal gall'd her Pride,
And thus to Reynard she reply'd:
' Sir, you're extremely right I vow,
' But how will you come at me now?
' You dare not mount this lofty Tree,
' So there I'm pretty safe, you see.
' From long ago, (or Record lies)
' You Foxes have been counted wise:
' But sure this Story don't agree
' With your Device of eating me.
' For you, Dame Fortune still intends
' Some coarser Food than singing Hens:
' Besides e'er you can reach so high,
' Remember you must learn to fly.
' I own 'tis but a scurvy way,
' You have as yet to seize your Prey,
' By sculking from the Beams of Light,
' And robbing Hen-roosts in the Night:
' Yet you must keep this vulgar Trade
' Of thieving till your Wings are made.

' Had I the keeping of you tho',
' I'd make your subtle Worship know,
' We Chickens are your Betters due,
' Not fatted up for such as you:
' Shut up in Cub with rusty Chain,
' I'd make you lick your Lips in vain:
' And take a special Care, be sure,
' No Pullet shou'd come near your Door:
' But try if you cou'd feed or no,
' Upon a Kite or Carrion Crow.'
Here ceas'd the Hen. The baffl'd Beast
March'd off without his promis'd Feast.