And there lay the feathers, all torn.
And flying one way and another,
That still her dear child might have worn,
Had she been more wise as a mother.
Her owner then thought he must teach
Dame Biddy a little subjection;
And cooped her up, out of the reach
Of hawking, with time for reflection.
And, throwing a net o'er a pile
Of brush-wood that near her was lying,