She'd go where the corn in the hill,
Its first little blade had been shooting,
And try, by the strength of her bill,
To learn if the kernel was rooting.
And when she went out on a walk
Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles,
The covetous eye of a Hawk
Delighted in marking her rambles.
"I spy," to himself he would say,
"A prize of which I'll be the winner!"