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Tradition said he feather’d his nest
In the Golden Age of Farming ;
Made Horticulture quite charming !
A Lord of Land, on his own estate,
But his income would bear carousing; Such acres he had of pasture and heath, With herbage so rich from the ore beneath, The very ewe's and lambkin's teeth
Were turn'd into gold by browsing.
He gave, without any extra thrift,
To each son of his loins, or daughter:
A dip in Pactolian water.
'Twas said that even his pigs of lead, By crossing with some by Midas bred,
Made a perfect mine of his piggery. And as for cattle, one yearling bull Was worth all Smithfield-market full
Of the Golden Bulls of Pope Gregory.
The high-bred horses within his stud,
Had their Golden Cups and flagons :
When they stopp'd with the carts and wagons.
Moreover, he had a Golden Ass,
That was worth his own weight in money-
Gather'd gold instead of honey.
Gold ! and gold! and gold without end !
And reversions of gold in futuro.
“O bella eta del oro !”
Such was the tale of the Kilmansegg Kin,
And declare the whole story a parable
Of acres, pasture and arable.
That as money makes money, his golden bees Where the Five per Cents, or which you please,
When his cash was more than plentyThat the golden cups were racing affairs ; And his daughters, who sang Italian airs,
Had their golden harps of Clementi.
That the Golden Ass, or Golden Bull,
Then at war by land and water:
At the Lord knows what per quarter!
What different dooms our birthdays bring !
Survives to wear many a wrinkle ;
Expires without even a twinkle!
Into this world we come like ships,
For fortune fair or fatal; ·
In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay,
While another rides safe at Port Natal.
What different lots our stars accord !
And that to be shunn'd like a leper!
To its vinegar, only, and pepper.
One is litter'd under a roof
That's the prose of Love in a Cottage,–
The bid of " a mess of pottage.”
Born of Fortunatus's kin,
To a prospect all bright and burnish’d:
To a lodging ready furnish'd.
And the other sex--the tender—the fair-
In a garden of Gul reposes-
Till—think of that, who find life so sweet!
She hates the smell of roses !
Not so with the infant Kilmạnsegg !
Or gather cresses in ditches;
To fill their insides with stitches!
She was not doom'd, for bread to eat,
To carry home linen from mangles-
With as many blows as spangles.
She was one of those who by Fortune's boon Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon
In her mouth, not a wooden ladle: To speak according to poet's wont, Plutus as sponsor stood at her font,
And Midas rock'd the cradle.
At her first debut she found her head
With a damask canopy over.
Some children are born in clover.