"_Martin_ in this has proved himself a very good man!" --_Boxiana_. [Footnote 22: The well-known Humanitarian, M. P. for Galway, the author of "Martin's Act" for the protection of animals from ill-treatment, and one of the founders of the noble society having the same object. He died in 1834.] I. How many sing of wars, Of Greek and Trojan jars-- The butcheries of men! The Muse hath a "Perpetual Ruby Pen!" Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill; But no one sings the man That, like a pelican, Nourishes Pity with his tender _Bill_! II. Thou Wilberforce of hacks! Of whites as well as blacks, Pyebald and dapple gray, Chestnut and bay-- No poet's eulogy thy name adorns! But oxen, from the fens, Sheep--in their pens, Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns! Thou art sung on brutal pipes! Drovers may curse thee, Knackers asperse thee, And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes; But the old horse neighs thee, And zebras praise thee,-- Asses, I mean--that have as many stripes! III. Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,-- Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air! Bullocks don't wear _Oxide_ of iron! The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft, Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, That thought his horse the _courser_ of the two-- Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!-- O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds--(if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather)--when the clown uplifts His hands against the sparrow's nest, to _grab_ it,-- He shall not harm the MARTINS and the _Swifts_! IV. Ah! when Dean Swift was _quick_, how he enhanc'd The horse!--and humbled biped man like Plato! But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd-- Gone backward in the world--and not advanc'd,-- Remember Cato! Swift was the horse's champion--not the King's, Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus--would he were thrown! He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things! Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly!--let it debar men From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse-- Look at the ancients' _Muse_! Look at their _Carmen_! V. O, Martin I how thine eyes-- That one would think had put aside its lashes,-- That can't bear gashes Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane,-- For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody vein-- Gods! is there no _Horse-spital_! That such raw shows must sicken the humane! Sure Mr. Whittle Loves thee but little, To let that poor horse linger in his _pane_! VI.