Tune, The Race Horse.
View the lass lewd and lovely, of high sporting race,
Prepar’d to encounter the lustful embrace;
Her t—s wide extended, her tempting breasts bare,
The lustful receiver conceal’d by black hair:
While ruddy and rampant, erecting his crest,
With ardour rebounding from knee to the breast,
The signal observ’d, firmly fix’d on his seat,
The high-mettled P—o first starts for the heat.
Full stretch’d, crossing, justling, see onward they rush,
And o’er the same ground three times speedily push;
Till weary’d, worn out, we behold P—o tame,
As he crawls off the course lifeless, jaded, and lame.
A short time elaps’d, when examin’d his case,
He’s found sorely injur’d by running the race;
And the high mettl’d P—o, erst proud and elate,
Is pronounc’d by the knowing ones in for the plate.
Confin’d to the stable, shut out from the stud,
Restrain’d in his diet, and oft losing blood,
He’s plaister’d and poultic’d, in linen rags rob’d,
Fir’d, purg’d, and bolus’d, cut, syring’d, and prob’d;
Till burning like stones that are turn’d into lime,
Alas! luckless P—o’s cut off in his prime.
Lament the hard fate this sad story informs,
The high-mettl’d P—o’s made food for the worms.