Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts, And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts. Short cuts, indeed! But it’s nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt To scramble through gaps, or jump over a ditch, when they’re morally certain she can’t,-- For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it’s almost daily the case, Tho’ they don’t laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the “hooray!” in their face. There’s the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green beyond, And thought it was all terry firmer and grass, till I walked in the duckweed pond: Or perhaps when I’ve pully-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down, As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town. Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find, But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind; For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my gown-- And when gowns are dyed, I needn’t say, it’s much better done up in town. As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a shrill piece of work! And ever since--and it’s ten days ago--we’ve lived upon nothing but pork; One Sunday except, and then I turn’d sick, a plague take all countrified cooks! Why didn’t they tell me, _before_ I had dined, they made pigeon pies of the rooks? Then the gooseberry wine, tho’ it’s pleasant when up, it doesn’t agree when it ’s down, But it served me right, like a gooseberry, fool to look for champagne out of town? To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he started this pastoral plan, And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me all that she can, Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I’m sure that I never shall learn, And I’ve fetch’d more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn; But in making hay, tho’ it’s tanning work, I found it more easy to make, But it tries one’s legs, and no great relief when you’re tired to sit down on the rake. I’d a country dance, too, at harvest home, with a regular country clown, But, Lord! they don’t hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town: Then I’ve tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs, I’m always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can’t even please the pigs. The very hens pick holes in my hand when I grope for the new-laid eggs, And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs. I’ve been bump’d in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down, The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts--but they’re kept in cages in town! Another thing is the nasty dogs--thro’ the village I hardly can stir Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur;