And send us hail, and sleet, and snow,
How will you save from such keen weathers,
Your merit—sir, I mean your feathers?
As for myself,—to think that I
Should lead an idiot to my sty,
Or strive to make an oaf my friend,
Makes all my bristles stand on end:
But for the future, when I see
A bird that much resembles thee,
I’ll ever make it as a rule,