A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES.


Of all the Grain our Nation yields
In Orchard, Gardens, or in Fields,
There is a grain which, tho' 'tis common,
Its Worth till now was known to no Man.
Not _Ceres_ Sickle e're did crop
A Grain with Ears of greater hope:
And yet this Grain (as all must own)
To Grooms and Hostlers well is known,
And often has without disdain
In musty Barn and Manger lain,
As if it had been only good
To be for Birds and Beasts the Food.
But now by new-inspired Force,
It keeps alive both Man and Horse.
Then speak, my Muse, for now I guess
E'en what it is thou wouldst express:
It is not Barley, Rye, nor Wheat,
That can pretend to do the Feat:
'Tis _Oates_, bare _Oates_, that is become
The Health of _England_, Bane of _Rome_,
And Wonder of all Christendom.
And therefore _Oates_ has well deserv'd
To be from musty Barn prefer'd,
And now in Royal Court preserv'd,
That like _Hesperian_ Fruit, _Oates_ may
Be watch'd and guarded Night and Day,