I Sing the Noble Swine

I sing the noble swine, sus scrofa or domesticus, that much maligned yet paragon
of animals;

Creature of the wild wood and orchard, I fix my eye on him and praise him.

He does not sweat, but rolls in mud to cool himself, which is not dirty.

What need has he to fly? He is a creature of earth, he digs for his food.
He is no glutton, he eats enough to be satisfied.

He mates together with the same sow, the self-same couple year after year.

I praise the pig-farmer above the shepherd and cattleman,
And think of old Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, who mixed with the monstrous suitors at Odysseus’ court,
Carrying urgent messages, hastening to and fro,

But soon having had his fill of wine, and roast meat, and conspiracy,
Uttered some of the wisest words in that ancient book:
‘I must be off,’ quoth he, ‘to see to the pigs’.

A sow’s ear indeed makes a fine purse, more durable than silk.

And thus, if you call me a swine I shall be honoured, and gladly return the compliment.