Therein he lurks the livelong day,
There sleeps the wily thief;
He, like a robber, plans for prey,
But comes at last to grief.
Around and ’bout those mossy stones,
Wherein the felon prowls,
Lay strewn a thousand tiny bones—
The sunder’d frames of fowls,
Of lambs, and other innocents,
Bred to have ’dorn’d the plate: