FABLE 48

The Gardener and the Hog

A Gardener of peculiar taste,
On a young Hog his favour placed,
Who fed not with the common herd;
His tray was to the hall preferr’d:
He wallow’d underneath the board,
Or in his master’s chamber snored,
Who fondly stroked him every day,
And taught him all the puppy’s play.
Where’er he went, the grunting friend
Ne’er fail’d his pleasure to attend.
As on a time the loving pair
Walk’d forth to tend the garden’s care,
The master thus address’d the Swine:
“My house, my garden, all is thine!
On turnips feast whene’er you please,
And riot in my beans and peas;
If the potato’s taste delights,
Or the red carrot’s sweet invites,
Indulge thy morn and evening hours,
But let due care regard my flowers:
My tulips are my garden’s pride:
What vast expense those beds supplied:”
The Hog by chance one morning roam’d,
Where with new ale the vessels foam’d:
He munches now the steaming grains,
Now with full swill the liquor drains.
Intoxicating fumes arise:
He reels, he rolls his winking eyes:
Then staggering through the garden scours,
And treads down painted ranks of flowers:
With delving snout he turns the soil,
And cools his palate with the spoil.
The master came, the ruin spied;
“Villain; suspend thy rage,” he cried,
“Hast thou, thou most ungrateful sot,
My charge, my only charge, forgot?
What, all my flowers! “no more he said,
But gazed and sigh’d, and hung his head.
The Hog, with stuttering speech returns:
“Explain, Sir, why your anger burns.
See there, untouch’d, your tulips strown,
For I devour’d the roots alone.”
At this the Gardener’s passion grows;
From oaths and threats he fell to blows.
The stubborn brute the blow sustains,
Assaults his leg, and tears the veins.
Ah! foolish Swain, too late you find
That sties were for such friends design’d!
Homeward he limps with painful pace,
Reflecting thus on past disgrace:
“Who cherishes a brutal mate,
Shall mourn the folly soon or late.”