The Birth-Day Poem by William Hutton

In nought but your own I'd advise you to deal in;
Your fingers will then be prevented from stealing.

No system of politicks I ever vent,
Lest people find meanings which I never meant,
Nor ever attempt, by resuming debate,
To point out the faults which creep into the state;
But in silence retreat the remainder of life,
Like puss in a corner, and never court strife;
Nor wantonly will I my glass shake about,
But let it be still while the sand shall run out.
That Doctor, we all think, will act his part best,
If he can't cure his patient, will give him some rest.
Nay, should critic-venom against my Muse tend,
I'd not take the field--but had much rather mend.
No illustrious falsehood my pen shall relate;
A truth, though but small,'s worth a lie that is great.

I'll sing of a birth-day, and train the Muse for it;
For why mayn't I sing one as well as the Laureat.
Though his Muse up to heroes and gods may aspire,
And mine, like its Master, must wade through the mire,
Yet while that lov'd Muse in full freedom can strut,
I wish him much joy of his hundred and butt.

A husband, for years, Martha tried to trepan;
But though none she could find, she at length found--a man.
A union succeeded--no knot tied the two--
She found he could do what a husband could do;
But she, if the world were inclin'd to dispute it,
Could shew them Miss Sally, and that would refute it.

A twelvemonth is spent in her railing at John,
For doing precisely what she wanted done.
Thus, when our friend's absent, we can, with great ease
Heap on him whatever abuses we please.

Now Sally's a year old. Little Martha's delighted;
'Her birth-day we'll keep,' so her friends are invited,
'A gooseberry-pye we'll accomplish, if able,
So large, that, perhaps, it will break down the table.'

But, at length she concluded, so mighty a pye,
She fear'd, would be rather expensive to buy.
A garden she spy'd, full of excellent fruit;
Then onward she ventur'd, and found it would suit;
Three times she survey'd it--the fruit appear'd fine--
'By jingo,' she thought, 'some of that shall be mine.'
Her eyes glanc'd about, as attended by fear,
But could not discover one creature was near.

A body so little might slily creep in,
Which, a thousand to twenty, would never be seen;
While there not an hawk's eye could ever have spy'd her;
She knew any one of the bushes would hide her.
Thus her couzen, Tom Thumb, like my tale, rather brief,
Thought himself quite secure while hid under a leaf.

Now heavily laden, she thought it was meet,
Like commanders and thieves, to secure a retreat
Not the road which she enter'd; she thought that unwise;
Because her small bulk had increas'd double size.

But who was more happy! in looking again
She found a snug way o'er a smooth and green plain;
But, attempting this road, she perceiv'd by her feet,
It was false as a lover--and not quite so sweet.
Can a man, when he's loaded, more evils acquire,
Than to find he sticks fast in the worst of all mire?
The whole length of Martha might easily be found;
Two feet were below, and two feet above ground.

A release was effected, and though you might view her,
She retreated in safety--no soul durst pursue her.
Or, were she quite gone, you might easily tell,
As well as friend Jowler, the road by the smell.

Learn hence, for a birth-day, let gooseb'rries alone,
Unless you can fairly call gooseb'rries your own.
You'll there pick at ease, like a school-boy that lingers,
Avoid tainted garments, and pricking your fingers.