Within their bivvy. If one chance to peep
At them through little beady eyes, then pat,
They throw a boot and rouse a mate from sleep
To hunt the thing, and on its head they heap
Curses quite inappropriate to its size.
I care for none of these, but broad and deep
I curse Beelzebub—the God of Flies.
Others may hunt the mouse with bayonet bright,
And beard the glittering beetle in his lair,
And fill the arches of the ancient night