So he jugg’d, and he trill’d, and he quaver’d so pretty,
That his Master himself hardly knew his own ditty.
Yet one thing in dudgeon the company took—
An occasional bass from the Raven, or Rook;
Though the gravest were somewhat to laughter inclin’d,
As the Wag-tail kept time by a jerk from behind.—
Then, the Bulfinch began—and ’tis well he was taught,
For the note he was born to, is not worth a groat:
But he prov’d an apt scholar; and soon, not a tone
Nor an air cou’d he hear, but he made it his own.—