The Lament of Toby, The Learned Pig
Oh, heavy day! oh, day of woe!
To misery a poster,
Why was I ever farrowed, why
Not spitted for a roaster?
In this world, pigs, as well as men,
Must dance to fortune's fiddlings,
But must I give the classics up,
For barley-meal and middlings?
Of what avail that I could spell
And read, just like my betters,
If I must come to this at last,
To litters, not to letters?
Oh, why are pigs made scholars of?
It baffles my discerning,
What griskins, fry, and chitterlings
Can have to do with learning.
Alas! my learning once drew cash,
But public fame's unstable,
So I must turn a pig again
And fatten for the table.
To leave my literary line
My eyes get red and leaky;
But Giblett doesn't want me blue,
But red and white, and streaky.
Old Mullins used to cultivate
My learning like a gard'ner;
But Giblett only thinks of lard,
And not of Doctor Lardner.
He does not care about my brain
The value of two coppers,
All that he thinks about my head
Is, how I'm off for choppers.
Of all my literary kin
A farewell must be taken,
Goodbye to the poetic Hogg!
The philosophic Bacon!
Day after day my lessons fade,
My intellect gets muddy;
A trough I have, and not a desk,
A stye – and not a study!
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poem by Thomas Hood
Added by Poetry Lover
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