To break the cricket's slender limb;
And pain to them is sport to him.
He sometimes to your garden comes,
To crush the flowers and steal the plums—
The melons tries with thievish gripe,
To find the one that's nearest ripe—
His pocket fills with grapes or pears,
No matter how their owner fares;
When, by its lawless, robber track,
You trace the foot of idle Jack.