Lord Chesterfield And The Farmer's Wife Poem by William Hutton

The middling, great, and little folk,
Express a fondness for a joke;
And what man can a joke gain-say,
When he, who gives it, means to pay?

My rising Muse shall, now and then,
Record the acts of Noble Men.
Whoe'er on human worth refines,
And glorious in the Senate shines;
I'll never interrupt his course,
He shall rise higher in my verse:
Let Stanhope then my verse engage,
A Stanhope shall adorn my page;
For he, while I his fame make known,
Will rather tend to swell my own.

An Earl of Chesterfield there were
At Bretby Hall, in Derbyshire,
Who ate and drank, who slept and woke,
Soon after Charles had left the oak;
Plain was his person to the scan,
As any farmer, or his man;
While others shone in wig and lace,
He figur'd in a homely case
His manners, too, were like his dress,
A compliment could scarce express,
For what mouth the word Sir can spare,
Except it first shall enter there?
He seldom made a courtly bow,
Nay, we much doubt, if he knew how.

The morning fine, sweet sung the lark,
He stroll'd about in Bretby park;
Whoever saw him would not guess
An Earl was hid in such a dress
The passenger, from town to town,
Suppos'd he saw a brother clown,
Was neither struck with joy or sorrow,
But gave a nod, or said, 'Good morrow.'

Along the foot-path, he descry'd
A woman; he attentive ey'd
Her age: we're not exactly told,
But she was far from being old,
Seem'd as belonging to a farm,
A basket hung upon her arm;
A large straw hat her temples bind,
Deck'd with straw ornaments behind;
Her apron, and her stockings too,
With handkerchief, were clean and blue;
What colours might her garters show
My Lord himself did not yet know;
For to a husband should be known
The colours there, and him alone;
Her gown, of house'ife's stuff was trimm'd,
And carefully behind was pinn'd.

'How far away, Dame?' says the Peer.
'To market, with my butter, here.'
'How many pounds have you to sell?
And what's the price? I like it well.'
'I've thirty, and its very nice;
The weight is large; a groat's the price.'
'Give me the basket, as you're willing,
'I'll buy the whole.--So here's ten shilling.'

She seem'd surpriz'd, but yet obey'd;
Such customers she seldom had.
But, what was her astonishment,
When to a large oak-tree he went,
And on the root, completely round,
He slamm'd the butter, pound by pound.
So great a tree, all England through,
Had never in May butter grew.
In silence she beheld the wrong,
Because amazement tied her tongue;
During seven minutes looking on
The profits of a week were gone.

Her powers within were sorely heated
To see such butter rudely treated;
More waste she saw, in that short strife,
Than she'd committed all her life.
The neat devices on each pound
Were sticking to the bark around,
Which many figures made, no doubt,
But then it blotted all her's out.

The basket, emptied of its ware,
He then return'd, with easy air;
While she the martyr'd butter mourn'd,
He march'd away, quite unconcern'd.
She, too, went back, my Lord could see,
But ey'd the man., and ey'd the tree;
Hurt to see butter in that plight,
She wish'd the fellow out of sight;
While he, suspecting her design,
Resolv'd her plot to countermine.

The moment out of view was he,
She hasten'd to the butter'd tree;
Began the work of separating
The clean and foul, for profit-making:
A work she always counted good,
Which she from childhood understood.
'The best would serve for market still,
The rest would serve to greese a wheel.'
But ere she could the butter pack,
Lord Chesterfield was at her back.

'What right have you, my Dame,' says he,
'To any thing about the tree?
To take that property's a crime,
I bought, and paid you at the time;
The error lies with you alone
For taking what is not your own.'
Says she, ''Tis pity to abuse
Whatever we can bring in use;
Some trifling purpose I shall try
To put it to.'--' And so shall I,'
Reply'd the Earl, without a frown,
And instantly he threw her down,
Pull'd up her petticoats behind,
Regardless both of wet and wind,
When on her butt-end, slamm'd as free
The butter, as he'd done the tree.

The whole applied, with dext'rous art,
Instantly swell'd her nether part;
She look'd, for all the world, as plump
As if she'd put on a cork rump.
The fashion chang'd of female kind,
Some swell before, but she behind.

'There, Goody, as you're fond of gains,
Take that large plaister for your pains.'
Then, in a moment, turn'd to go,
Regardless whether watch'd or no.
A curious figure you might spy,
A woman, butter'd half-way high.

He's wisdom to a large amount,
Who turns misfortunes to account;
Like bees, who follow nature's law,
Can sweetness from rank poison draw.
This fine accomplishment I name,
Was easy to the farmer's dame;
She long the powers had understood,
From evil of substracting good.

Her fingers did, without delay,
Rake all the, parts where profit lay;
Then knife applied, to hill and gutter,
With which the buyer tastes the butter;
Moulded it fresh, both neat and round;
Her eye could nearly guess a pound.
Well pleas'd it was but little worse,
To Burton market bent her course,
And sold her ware, with profit more
Than ever she had done before.
Of thirty pounds, but five were wasted;
Her pen-knife neither smelt nor tasted;
Nor did the buyer once discern
'Twas gather'd from the lower churn.