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Cur! cur!
You must have seen, pray han’t you Sir?
In London streets, a yelping cur,
In trust of waggon proud:
Trampling the bales of goods below,
Barking at crowds who near him go,
Snarling, and racing to and fro,
Busy, offensive, loud.
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Of office insolently vain,
He snaps, and growls, and snaps again—
A plague to all around;
And yet with all this battling stout,
Of what he really is about,
And worth of charge which prompts this rout,
In ignorance profound.
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| 162 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
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A cur, you may have seen beside.
To axle-tree by cord fast tied,
Beneath a cart, God wot;
The string about his neck he feels,
He twists, he writhes, he pulls, he reels,
And wheels about between the wheels,
Compelled along to trot.
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Like vanquished slave in ancient war,
Chained to the spoke of Victor’s car,
A triumph to adorn;
His dreary howl ascends the sky,
Amid the shouts of victory,
No sharer in the general cry,
But wretched and forlorn.
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Thus ’tis that “all the talent” crew,
Appear presented to our view
A currish-tempered race;
Barking and yelping with the best,
Snarling and biting without rest,
To all, and to themselves a pest,
When raised aloft to place.
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Tearing about, so loud of voice,
So pert, and prodigal of noise,
And self-importance too!
Spoiling the goods beneath their care,
Yet bustling, chaffing, here and there,
Though impotent to guard the ware,
Or real service do.
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And so again did they appear,
Tied to the cart (their proper sphere),
Unwilling tugged along;
With all their backward jerks so hard
Its progress trying to retard,
With filth their fate, scorn their reward,
In struggling with the strong.
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And now when victory’s acclaim,
To glory gives Britannia’s name,
In notes which mount to heaven!
Still, like the cur, their helpless fate
They mourn, while all the land’s elate,
And, wretched, grace their rivals’ state
In pomp of triumph driven.
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On with the car they must proceed,
Strengthless to leave it, or impede
The splendid course it rolls;
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| THE SUN NEWSPAPER. | 163 |
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Reluctant, howling, stubborn, slow,
With joy they mix their screams of woe,
And that good men with transports glow,
Embitters more their souls!
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