To a sharp spit a pine-branch Loptur filed;
Then felling two small trees, firm in the ground
One end he fix’d; the other end he clove
Of each, and on them turn’d the spit around:
Nor did he long delay his skill to prove;
He skewer’d each joint, then fed the flame, and plied
The labours of the cook with joy and pride.
While thus he stood watching each bubbling joint,
To some short distance were his comrades gone;
When he surmised the roast enough was done,