struggled about,
Unable to rise; but at last he got out,
And crept to a field where fine cabbages grew:
"I'm hungry," said he, "I'll indulge in a few."
When, just as his snout had a nice plant uptorn,
A shot through his ear he had reason to mourn,
Discharged from the gun of a lad stationed there,
To take care of the crop, and all robbers to scare.

Wounded, weary, and hungry, poor Jack now felt sad,
And thought of the home, so safe he once had,
Where he'd plenty of food, and clean straw for his bed,
And at night, a roof of good thatch o'er his head.
He escaped from the field, though he scarcely knew how,
And scampered as fast as his strength would allow:
In the distance, a town, long and wide he could see;
"Ah! ah!" said Jack Swine, "that's the quarter for me."

Then Jack hurried on to the city so gay,
Where he walked through the streets in his comic array;
But think of his horror, oh! think of his dread,
When, hanging immediately over his head,
In the first butcher's shop that he chanced to discover,
Were the mortal remains of poor Bobby, his brother,
"'Tis sad," sighed our Jack, "such a difference should be
Between that unfortunate fellow and me."

[Illustration]

But now I have hardly the heart to relate
To my dear little readers, the terrible fate
That awaited poor Jack. Scarce a moment had passed,
As he gazed on his brother, while tears trickled fast,
When he uttered a loud and a heart-rending wail,
For a butcher, in blue, had caught hold of his tail,
By which, and one ear, while Jack squeaked for his mother,
Away he was dragged, to be slain, like his brother.

The sun rose, next morning, and shed its first gleam,
On exact the same spot where his brother had been;
But there, in the same place, extended and dead,
Hung poor master Jacky, without any head.
The head, too, hung near,--but without its fine wig,
And was now to be seen as the head of a pig.
Many times has the butcher thought of his good luck,
But he'll never again capture such a gay buck.

[Illustration]

If pigs will walk upright, and strut with fine canes,
Stalking in towns, 'stead of roaming in lanes,
Misfortunes they'll meet with, no doubt, such as Jack's,
Getting shots through their ears, and kicks on their backs.

Piggy left a good sty,
And went out, like a guy;
But think you, who chide him,
How many beside him,
By false pleasures are won,
Like the Prodigal Son.

[Illustration]