His tale when told--instead of going, The Abbot looks most wondrous knowing; And says "'Tis a falsehood,--a fable, Which he to deny is not able," As with throbbings of conscience he shook; For he could not then think of the frailest excuse, Though he rummaged his brains--it was all of no use, For his cunning and skill him forsook. "You are guilty, you sinner!" the stern Abbot cried; "Your confusion betrays you! Now don't try to hide Your wickedness more, for I shall not believe A word that you say, as you've tried to deceive." Then the poor friar thought That for pardon he sought, But the Abbot appeared not to hear, When he swooned right away, And insensible lay, Overcome with remorse or with fear. As he came to himself, thinks he, "I'm in bed;" But very soon after thinks he, "No, I'm dead: Oh, I feel so uncommonly queer! I can move neither leg nor an arm, And my tongue's unaccountably calm,-- There is something wrong, certainly, here. Where's the Abbot?--He's gone--'tis most like for assistance. They will bury me, p'rhaps, and I can't make resistance: Oh, my doom is now sealed I see clear!"
As thus he thought, for lips refused to speak, A queer sensation trickled o'er his cheek. In vain each nerve he strains to turn his eyes, For they're immovable; but soon he spies A large red worm, and in its trail there creep A dozen more, who prowl about and peep Into his mouth and nose, and tickle so That what to do he's puzzled much to know. "The bait has 'scaped from out my box," thought he; "And, while entranced, from spite would bother me." What would he not have given for a scratch! A good hard rub would even nectar match. The richest feast he felt he could forego For the relief of one good sweeping blow. "O that some large, emancipated bear, Would for his lunch my corpse in pieces tear! Than this dread tickling, I'm persuaded quite, I'd much enjoy his hug and hearty bite." "Hookey!" exclaimed the worm: "a bite no more You'll get from us,--'tis useless to implore. You're 'off the hooks,' as vulgar writers scribble, But we'll supply you with a little nibble." With this some dozen irritating teeth Dashed through his skin, but gave him no relief. His face is stiffened o'er with mud and slime, While burning rays are scorching all the time His dew-less eyes--and, parched with heat and thirst, His swollen tongue appears as if 'twould burst. Then a red worm arose, Perched a-top of his nose, And clearing his throat made the following speech:-- "My dearest friend Peter, As your guests we greet yer, And mean to stick to you as tight as a leech; For the bright sun will fry us All the meat you supply us. Oh, you're now in such excellent season, That for months we'll contrive, If the crows don't arrive, To repast, though our numbers increase on. Now don't look so sulky,--recollect how you used us-- (For your airs and ill-temper will only amuse us). Pray just think how you took, And for fun, on a hook Soused us head over heels in the depths of the river, For the fishes to bite Till we're washed away quite. But the thought is enough to make any worm shiver. But your sport Is all caught, And 'tis our turn to tease. We can't hook You--but, look You, you won't get much ease, For your ears we shall enter, and down your throat dive: Whilst, to make the most of you, as rivals we'll strive: But your bones will be left when we've finally done To be washed by the rain and made white by the sun. Oh, revenge is a sweet and a delicate sauce, Which will sharpen our teeth should we chance feel remorse." Then a dark'ning shade o'er the victim's head, Like a tiny cloud or a sun-blind, spread, While his brow was fanned by a gentle breeze, Which seemed to descend from the waving trees. 'Twas a moment of bliss, till, lo! he saw A pair of black wings and a darksome claw, Which pierced through his face where 'twas peeled and raw. "O joyful," he thought, "if this crow devours The tormentors of these distracted hours! Once rid of these plagues I could rot with ease; They tickle far worse than a thousand fleas!" But the carrion crows preferred hot meat To such reptile food, and began to eat, And piece after piece from his cheek they tore,-- Such torture he felt he could scarce endure; So he said, "Good crow, if you'll raise your claw, No fish I'll entice from the cool stream more.