Classic Poem

Ah! whither art thou gone, poor Tray?
Ah! whither art thou gone?
And dost thou tread on English land,
Or dost thou on a foreign strand
Pour forth thy dismal moan?

Ah! what avails thy beauty, Tray?
Ah! what avails thee there?
Thy coat with richest red bedight,
Commingling with the purest white,
Thy wiry length of hair!

Ah! what avails thy beauty, Tray?
Ah! what avails thee now?
The spotted nose, the feathered feet,
The ears beneath the chin that meet,
The frown that decks thy brow!

Ah! fatal were thy beauties, Tray!
‘Fatally fair thy face!
Now stranger hands that nose shall pat,
And unaccustomed voices chat
Of each peculiar grace.’

O! be thou faithful still, poor Tray!
And sulk as thou wert wont;
Ere he whom; in a generous fit,
Nature made painter, poet, wit,
First led thee forth to hunt.

O! tease thy thievish owner, Tray!
O! tease the plunderer well!
Noisy or mute mistime thy notes,
Soil stockings, garters, petticoats,
Revolt, resist, rebel!

Revolt, resist, rebel, good Tray!
And tease his soul amain!
So shall he own the high behest,
That honesty still prospers best,
And send thee home again.