Thus stood the Boar, athirst for blood, Trampling the Morning Post to mud, With tusks prepared to run a muck;-- And sorrow for the mortal’s luck That came across him Whig or Tory, It would have been a tragic story-- But fortune interposing now, Brought Bessy into play--a Sow;-- A fat, sleek, philosophic beast That never fretted in the least, Whether her grains were sour or sweet, For grains are grains, and she could eat. Absorb’d in two great schemes capacious, The farrow and the farinaceous, If cares she had, they could not stay, She drank, and _wash’d_ them all away. In fact this philosophic sow Was very like a German frow; In brief--as wit should be and fun,-- If sows turn Quakers, she was one; Clad from the duckpond, thick and slab, In bran-new muddy suit of drab. To still the storm of such a lubber, She came like oil--at least like blubber-- Her pigtail of as passive shape As ever droop’d o’er powder’d nape; Her snout, scarce turning up--her deep Small eyes half settled into sleep; Her ample ears, dependent, meek, Like fig-leaves shading either cheek; Whilst, from the corner of her jaw, A sprout of cabbage, green and raw, Protruded,--as the Dove, so stanch For Peace, supports an olive branch,-- Her very grunt, so low and mild, Like the soft snoring of a child, Inquiring into his disquiets, Served like the Riot Act, at riots,-- He laid his restive bristles flatter, And took to arguefy the matter. “O Bess, O Bess, here’s heavy news! They mean to ‘mancipate the Jews! Just as they turn’d the blacks to whites, They want to give them equal rights, And, in the twinkling of a steeple, Make Hebrews quite like other people. Here, read--but I forget your fetters, You’ve studied litters more than letters.” “Well,” quoth the Sow, “and no great miss, I’m sure my ignorance is bliss; Contentedly I bite and sup, And never let my flare flare-up; Whilst you get wild and fuming hot-- What matters Jews be Jews or not? Whether they go with beards like Moses, Or barbers take them by the noses, Whether they live, permitted dwellers, In Cheapside shops, or Rag Fair cellars, Or climb their way to civic perches, Or go to synagogues or churches?” “Churches!--ay, there the question grapples, No, Bess, the Jews will go to Chappell’s!” “To chapel--well--what’s that to you? A Berkshire Boar, and not a Jew? We pigs,--remember the remark Of our old drover Samuel Slark, When trying, but he tried in vain, To coax me into Sermon Lane, Or Paternoster’s pious Row,-- But still I stood and grunted No! Of Lane of Creed an equal scorner, Till bolting off, at Amen Corner, He cried, provoked at my evasion, ‘Pigs, blow ’em! ar’n’t of no persuasion!’”