"Almost a split--a crying jag; A scare at top, a threat, below; An ugly tuck that scrimps the bag We meant to fill as harvests grow.
"In our big sail a plaguy reef, Were it not that craft o' his pert make With too much head have come to grief, Strew bottom up our rushing wake.
"Against the owl what counts the mouse? But no. That strains a bit the proper zest: He shall have due of grounds and house, We'll dish for him as for the rest.
"'Twill daze him, sure, our big provide, Till, on a breath, he vent his stare: 'Such doors as these had best be tried, Ere back to thatch and homely fare.'
"And say he sulks, we'll coax him in: What does he care who carves the meat? So fill of fodder strew the bin, Who rules the loft, or heads the treat?
"He will never quibble on a word, Give simple 'rob' a double sense; But loyal strain shall well accord With leave of thrift and competence.
"And 'tis trite as dirt, where'er we go, The sleek slut, Trade, trots close at heel, 'Gainst whose hard sense how fares the saw, The musty fib--'Thou shalt not steal!'
"Yes--we'll be his staff and hedge him fine, Till lust of Have like gospel read, And his backbone in the general spine Does merge its hump and dogged breed.
"The idiot pluck with which he strove To shield his hearth with freehold fence, And rather wear the homely wove Than rig to suit our lofty sense.
"His rooted stand and settled haze The foot he plants 'gainst sudden New, Whose golden tilth and reap of grace Holds furrowed snug the only True.
"His crafty shield; those mealy snares For simple lambs. His wolfish doubt, When, stung and wrung with sore his cares, They flocked to help friend Hodges out--
"And forced from faith his better word, And warped his truth with keen despair, That the large rights for which he chored Should never greet a lineal heir.
"But all his throb and bitter sweat, His blood paid down for desert lands, Should snap its lease, be lightly set A hawker's trust in stranger hands--
"And how for this he bled and drove, Cribbed-in this band of saintly Peace; Played wary host to all their trove, Made yare go 'round the golden fleece--
"And worst--those sons of loot, his bossy crew! Who, fearing thieves, would chance no charm, But gag the spoiler 'fore he grew To oust their rights with legal arm.