The Profits Of The Field Poem by William Hutton

It may by chance happen, exciting surprize,
A fool may be wiser than one counted wise.

A lunatic--I could tell where,
Was plac'd beneath a Doctor's care,
Who ply'd the medic art--and, more,
To fit his head up as before.
A tenement should be kept whole,
Whether for body made, or soul;
And he who best can mend the flaws,
Mason or Doctor, gains applause.

Our patient's case, we humbly guess,
Attended was with some success;
And he allow'd when better found,
To traverse the adjacent ground.

With horse, with gun, and three dogs nigh,
A sporting gentleman pass'd by--
'I'm glad,' while o'er the horse he hover'd,
'To see you, Sir, so well recover'd.
What method is the Doctor taking,
That the complaint is you forsaking?'

'A water-tub he puts me in,
And makes me stand up to the chin.
So you expect to be a winner
By changing powder for a dinner.
But pray what game, 'twixt you and I,
In one whole year can you destroy?'

'Why thirty pounds worth, I should guess;
I think not more-perhaps 'tis less.'

'Then what expence this profit clogs,
In horses, ammunition, dogs?'

'Why, to support this annual feast,
Three hundred, I suppose, at least.'

'Then, Sir, inform me, are not you
The greatest madman of thetwo?
I almost tremble for your doom,
Lest my sagacious Doctor come.
Retreat! The moment he appears
He'll duck you over head and ears.'