"You stupid Barleymow," said Dunghill; "You talk about your heart and wrung-ill: Where would you be, I'd like to know, Had I not fed and made you grow? You of October brew brag--pshaw! You would have been a husk of straw. And now, instead of gratitude, You rail in this ungrateful mood."
Pythagoras, at daybreak drawn To meditate on dewy lawn, To breathe the fragrance of the morning, And, like philosophers, all scorning To think or care where he was bound, Fell on a farm. A hammer's sound Arrested then his thoughts and ear:
The clown stood on a ladder's rung, And answered him with rudish tongue: "I've caught the villain--this here kite Kept my hens ever in a fright; I've nailed he here to my barn-door, Him shan't steal turkey-pouts no more." And lo! upon the door displayed, The caitiff kite his forfeit paid.
"Friend," said Pythagoras, "'tis right To murder a marauding kite; But, by analogy, that glutton-- That man who feasts on beef and mutton-- I say,--that by analogy,-- The man who eats a chick should die. 'Tis insolence of power and might When man, the glutton, kills the kite."
The clown, who heard Pythagoras, Waxed in a rage, called him an ass; Said man was lord of all creation.
"Man," the sage answered, _sans_ sensation, "You murder hawks and kites, lest they Should rob you of your fatted prey; And that great rogues may hold their state, The petty rascal meets his fate."
"Why are those tears? Why droops your head? Say is your swain or husband dead?"
The farmer's wife said: "You know well The salt was spilt,--to me it fell; And then to add loss unto loss, The knife and fork were laid across. On Friday evening, 'tis too true, Bounce in my lap a coffin flew. Some dire misfortune it portends: I tremble for my absent friends."
"Dame," said the neighbour, "tremble not: Be all these prodigies forgot; The while, at least, you eat your dinner Bid the foul fiend avaunt--the sinner! And soon as Betty clears the table For a dessert, I'll read a fable.
"Betwixt her panniers rocked, on Dobbin A matron rode to market bobbing, Indulging in a trancelike dream Of money for her eggs and cream; When direful clamour from her broke: 'A raven on the left-hand oak! His horrid croak bodes me some ill.' Here Dobbin stumbled; 'twas down-hill, And somehow he with failing legs Fell, and down fell the cream and eggs. She, sprawling, said, 'You rascal craven! You--nasty--filthy--dirty--raven!' 'Goody,' said raven, 'spare your clamour, There nothing here was done by glamour; Get up again and wipe your gown, It was not I who threw you down; For had you laid your market ware On Dun--the old sure-footed mare-- Though all the ravens in the Hundred Had croaked till all the Hundred wondered, Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs, And you, good woman, saved your eggs.'"