Rural Felicity

Well, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough,for people that's country born,And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growingour grass and our corn.It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to writeand invite me down,Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life onlymakes one more partial to town.

At first I thought I was really come down intoall sorts of rural bliss,For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs,and its poultry, looks not much amiss;There's something about a dairy farm, with itsdifferent kinds of live stock,That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adamand his innocent flock;But somehow the good old Elysium fields havenot been well handed down,And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dearLeicester Fields up in town.

To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads,and so I should like for miles,If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that putup such crooked stiles;For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, tillyou're almost broken in two,If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, andyou stick if you try to creep through.Of course, in the end, one learns how to climbwithout constant tumbles down,But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanterdone about town.There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, andthat's by a walk in a lane,And I did find a very nice shady one, but I neverdared go again;For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, thatwouldn't be kept in the pound,A trying to toss the whole world at once, by stickinghis horns in the ground?And that, by the bye, is another thing, that pullsrural pleasures down,Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there'sonly two up in town.Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing awayat the first early pearly dew,And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, andI always got wetted through;My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold,and a nice draggle-tail to my gown,That's not the way that we bathe our feet, orwear our pearls, up in town!As for picking flow'rs, I have tried at a hedge,sweet eglantine roses to snatch,But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and howthe long brambles do scratch;Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn thattore all the bows from the crown,One may walk long enough without hats branchingoff, or losing one's bows about town.But worse than that, in a long rural walk, supposethat it blows up for rain,And all at once you discover yourself in a real St.Swithin's Lane;And while you're running all ducked and drown'd,and pelted with sixpenny drops,"Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "anice growing show'r for the crops!"But who's to crop me another new hat, or growme another new gown?For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough asyou do with the hackneys in town.

Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to gowith them gathering nuts,And we always set out by the longest way andreturn by the shortest cuts.Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to geta poor lustyish auntTo scramble through gaps or jump over aditch, when they're morally certain she can't,--For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, andit'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, andI saw what was green beyond,And thought it was all terry firmer and grass tillI walked in the duckweed pond:Or perhaps when I've pully-hauled up a bankthey see me come launching down,As none but a stout London female can do as iscome a first time out of town.Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank averdurous seat to find,But for my part I always found it a joy thatbrought a repentance behind;For the juicy grass with its nasty green has staineda whole breadth of my gown--And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it'smuch better done up in town.As for country fare, the first morning I came Iheard such a shrill piece of work!And ever since--and it's ten days ago--we've livedupon nothing but pork;One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, aplague take all countrified cooks!Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, theymade pigeon pies of the rooks?Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant whenup, it doesn't agree when it's down,But it served me right like a gooseberry fool tolook for champagne out of town!To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the bestwhen he started this pastoral plan,And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and sheteaches 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 fetched more back-ache than butter asyet by chumping away at the churn;But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, Ifound it more easy to make,But it tries one's legs, and no great relief whenyou're tired to sit down on the rake.I'd a country dance too at harvest home, with aregular country clown,But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waistand give one such smacks in town!Then I've tried to make friends with the birdsand the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and Ican't even please the pigs.The very hens pick holes in my hands when Igrope for the new-laid eggs,And the gander comes hissing out of the pondon purpose to flap at my legs.I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow withouthorns, and the old sow trampled me down,The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts--butthey're kept in cages in town!Another thing is the nasty dogs--thro' the villageI hardly can stirSince giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to calloff a barking cur;And now you would swear all the dogs in theplace were set on to hunt me down,But neither the brutes nor the people I think areas civilly bred as in town.Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake,and all in a tremble of fright,But instead of a family murder it proved an owlthat flies screeching at night.Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks allabout, and I can't help dreaming of Swing--In short, I think that a plastoral life is not themost happiest thing;For besides all the troubles I've mentioned beforeas endur'd for rurality's sake,I've been stung by the bees, and I've set amongants, and once--ugh! I trod on a snake!And as to moskitoes they tortured me so, for I'vegot a particular skin,I do think it's the gnats coming out of the pondsthat drives the poor suicides in!And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be hadupon Holborn Hill?And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and freshbutter wherever you will?And a covered cart that brings Cottage Breadquite rustical-like and brown?So one isn't so very uncountrified in the veryheart of the town.Howsomever my mind's made up, and althoughI'm sure cousin Giles will be vext,I mean to book me an inside place up to townupon Saturday next,And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shallbe at the Old Bell and Crown,And perhaps I may come to the country again,when London is all burnt down!