A Self conceited Country Bumkin Thus made his glosses on a Pumkin. The Fruit, says he, is very big, The Stalk not thicker than a Twig, Scarce any Root, great Leaves; I wonder, Dame Nature should make such a blunder: Had I been she, I would have plac'd it On yon high Oak, and 'twould have grac'd it Better than Acorns; its a whim A little Shrub would do for them; Why should a Tree so tall and fine, Bear small stuff only fit for Swine? But hundred things are made in waste, Which shews the World was fram'd in haste. Had I been sent for in those Days, 'Twould have been managed otherwise: I would have made all of a suit, And large Trees should have had large Fruit. Thus he went on, and in his Eyes, The Simpleton was very wise; A little after, coming nigh An Oak, whose Crown was very high, He liked the Place and down he laid His weary Carcass, in the Shade: But, as the find-fault Animal Turn'd on his Back, an Acorn fell, And hit his Nose a swinging Blow. Good God was this the Pumkin now! The very thought on't struck him dumb: He prais'd his Maker, and went home. The Moral. _The World's vast Fabrick is so well Contrived by its Creator's Skill; There's nothing in't, but what is good To him, by whom its understood; And what opposes Human Sence, Shews but our Pride and Ignorance._ _The Hands, Feet, and Belly._ The Hands and Feet in Council met, Were mightily upon the Fret, And swore 'twas something more than hard, Always to work without reward. The Feet said, truly its a Jest, That we should carry all the rest; March at all Hours thro thick and thin, With Shoes that let the Water in; Our Nails are hard as Bullock's Horns, Our Toes beset with plaguy Corns; We rais'd four Blisters th' other Night, And yet got not a farthing by't. Brothers, reply'd the Hands, 'tis true, We know what hardship's y' undergo; But then w' are greater Slaves than you; For tho' all day we scrape and rake, And labour till our Fringers ake; Tho' we've been ply'd at every thing; Yet then, without considering What pains or weariness we feel, W'are forced to serve at every meal, And often, whilst you're set at ease, Drudge to the Knucles up in Grease; As for your Corns and Nails in troth, We have the trouble of cutting both. Take this not, Brothers, in a sence, That might create a Difference; We only hinted it, to shew We're full as badly us'd as you; Our Grievances are general, And caused by him that swallows all; The ungrateful Belly is our bane, Whom with our labour we maintain; The ill natured'st Rogue, that e'er was fed, The lazy'st Dog, that lives by Bread. For him we starve; for what d'ye think Becomes of all the Meat and Drink? 'Tis he, that makes us look so thin, To stretch his everlasting Skin; Tho' we do all his Business, What did he ever give to us? And therefore let my Lord _Abdomen_