The Farmer strewed barley, and toled
The chickens the brush to run under,
And left them, while Hawk growing bold,
Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.
As closer and closer he drew,
With appetite stronger and stronger,
He found he ’d but one thing to do,
And plunged, to defer it no longer.
But now had he come to a pause,
At once in the net-work entangled,
While through it his head and his claws
In hopeless vacuity dangled.
The chicks saw him hang overhead,
Where they for their barley had huddled;
And all in a flutter they fled,
And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.
The farmer came out to his snare.
He saw the bold captive was in it;
And said, “If this play be unfair,
Remember, I did not begin it!”
He then put a cork on his beak,
The airy assassin disarming,
Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,
By blunting each talent for harming.
And into the coop he was thrown:
The chickens hid under their mother,
For he, by his feathers was known
As he, who had murdered their brother.
Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,
Determined to show him no quarter,
In action gave vent to her spite;
As motherly tenderness taught her.
She shouted, and blustered; and then
Attacked the poor captive unfriended;
And you, (who have witnessed a hen
In anger,) may guess how it ended.
She made him a touching address,
If pecking and scratching could do it,
Till, sinking in silent distress,
He perished before she got through it.