Well, quoth the Fellow, in a Fret,
Since you are grown so bold,
I shall some more Assistance get,
And drive you from your Hold.
And strait he sends to a young Squire,
That he, by break of Day,
Would with his Pack of Hounds, repair
And sport himseif that way.
The Squire, as ask'd, attended came,
With Folks, and Horse, and Hounds,
And in pursuance of the Game,
Rode over all the Grounds.
They leapt the Ditches, broke the Hedges down,
And made most fearful Wast;
They trampl'd all the Garden round,
And kill'd poor Puss at last.
At this the Farmer tore his Hair,
And swore most bloodily,
Zounds! What confounded work is here?
And what a Fool am I?
Not fifty Hares, in fifty Days,
Had so much Mischief done,
As this good Squire (whom I must praise
And thank) hath wrought in One.
If our Deliverance from the Frights
Of standing Army near,
And silly superstitious Rites,
Worth Forty Millions were;
Then have we wisely broke our Mounds,
That our Defences were,
Wisely call'd in our Neighbours Hounds,
And kill'd the desperate Hare.
But if, with all this vast Expence,
Besides a Sea of Blood
Spilt in the Church and States Defence,
Our Matters stand much as they stood.