With joy she views her plenteous reeking store, And bears a brimmer to the dairy door; Her cows dismiss'd, the luscious mead to roam, Till ere again recall them loaded home. And now the DAIRY claims her choicest care, And half her household find employment there: Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream At once foregoes its quality and name; From knotty particles first floating wide Congealing butter's dash'd from side to side; Streams of new milk thro' flowing coolers stray, And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome whey. Due north th' unglazed windows, cold and clear, For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here. Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand, And _Giles_ must trudge, whoever gives command; A _Gibeonite_, that serves them all by turns: He drains the pump, from him the faggot burns; From him the noisy hogs demand their food; While at his heels run many a chirping brood, Or down his path in expectation stand, With equal claims upon his strewing hand. Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees The bustle o'er, and press'd the new-made cheese. Unrivall'd stands thy country CHEESE, O _Giles!_ Whose very name alone engenders smiles; Whose fame abroad by every tongue is spoke, The well-known butt of many a flinty joke, That pass like current coin the nation through; And, ah! experience proves the satire true. Provision's grave, thou ever craving mart, Dependant, huge Metropolis! where Art Her pouring thousands stows in breathless rooms, Midst pois'nous smokes and steams, and rattling looms; Where Grandeur revels in unbounded stores; Restraint, a slighted stranger at their doors! [Illustration: man pouring feed into a trough] Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'st the countries round, Till London market, London price, resound Through every town, round every passing load, And dairy produce throngs the eastern road: Delicious veal, and butter, every hour, From Essex lowlands, and the banks of Stour; And further far, where numerous herds repose, From Orwell's brink, from Weveny, or Ouse. Hence Suffolk dairy-wives run mad for cream, And leave their milk with nothing but its name; Its name derision and reproach pursue, And strangers tell of "three times skimm'd sky-blue." To cheese converted, what can be its boast? What, but the common virtues of a post! If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife, Most fair it bids for stubborn length of life, And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid, Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade; Or in the hog-trough rests in perfect spite, Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite. Inglorious victory! Ye Cheshire meads, Or Severn's flow'ry dales, where plenty treads, Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these, Farewell your pride! farewell renowned cheese! The skimmer dread, whose ravages alone Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone.