And says the fair goddess has no charms for him.
"'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheat
Will rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat;
Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight,
Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night.
A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!"
And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail.
At last this fair goddess descends from the throne,
Gives place to another we've all loved and known.
Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain,