A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer/A Day at Benton's Barn
A Day at Benton's Barn.
It were no book of mine, did it not contain some allusion to the noble art of "rat catching." The subjoined effusion being in as mild a form as anything I have ever penned on that subject, I am induced to insert it.
Farmer Benton had written Ned Perkins to say,
That he purposed on Friday to thrash out a bay;
That he'd sent to George Haynes, about ferrets, and so
They expected on Friday to have a grand go.
The morning is come, the machine got in motion,
Which rather beats thrashing by hand, I've a notion;
The chaff in a simoon of dust floats along,
And the team do their work to the waggoner's song.
George's outposts well guarded, the shindy begins,
At the expense of rat's lives and the countrymen's shins;
"Don't trample the wheat out," says Benton, "I pray,
There's no sort of hurry—they can't get away."
"There's one where that dog is; he's shifted; ne'er mind,
They'll all be crept into one corner you'll find.
Halloo! there's a great un'! Hie Tartar!—good lad;
He's got him: look yonder, they're bolting like mad."
My soul, there's a scuffle—"Be careful, I begs,
You'll have those fork-tines into somebody's legs!"
"Look out, Mr. Benton; there's one at your back,
On the top of the chaff-hole—just give him a crack."
"Mind, mind where you're hitting—there's one up the wall."
Oh! I thought it a mouse, by its being so small."
"No, no, it's a rat, look; and here are the rest;
There's twelve or thirteen of them down in this nest."
They are nearing the bottom, each sheaf they displace
Yields a rat, which produces a kill, or a race.
"Good Tartar!—hie, Nettle!—dead, dead!—Pincher drop it."
"There's one up the wall again—Petipher, stop it."
"Now, clumsey!—"he's miss'd him!" "Oh! he's safe enough;
He's popped through that air hole and into the sough."
"Bill Hawkins, run round, lad, and look out a bit,
They're certain to make for the kid pile or pit."
The bay is alive with them,—hark! what a row, sirs,
A young one has crept up Jack Harris's trowsers,
Who pales with affright, and exerting his muscle,
Belabours the place where a maid ties her bustle.
And thus they kept shouting and whacking away,
Till at last they got down to the floor of the bay,
Where full thirty old ones, 'tis true, on my soul,
Were found (as is often the case,) in one hole.
And then, such an uproar, when they were got out,
Such shouting, and barking, and running about;
All, all, save one old one, were fated to die;
Bill Stokes caught Joe Foster a whack on the eye.
Thus ended the warfare! full ninety had died.
Without counting seven they'd topper'd outside;
When, finding no others were left them to munch,
They left off, and went into Benton's to lunch.
In marrying, as in pearl fishing, the odds are fearfully against us. It is not every oyster-shell that contains a pearl.