The thief grew weary of vain wishes
For dainty dishes;
But just then heard an Infant cry,
The mother chiding angrily—
"Be quiet!
No riot;
Or to the Wolf I'll give you, brat!"
The Wolf cried, "Now, I quite like that;"
And thanked the gods for being good.
The Mother, as a mother should,
Soon calmed the Child. "Don't cry, my pet!
If the Wolf comes, we'll kill him, there!"
"What's this?" the thief was in a fret;
"First this, then that, there's no truth anywhere;
I'm not a fool, you know,
And yet they treat me so.
Some day, when nutting, it may hap
I may surprise the little chap."
As these reflections strike the beast,
A mastiff stops the way, at one fierce bound,
To any future feast,
And rough men gird him round.
"What brought you here?" cries many a one;
He told the tale as I have done.
"Good Heavens!" loud the Mother cried;
"You eat my boy! what! darling here
To stop your hunger? Hush! my dear."
They killed the brute and stripped his hide;
His right foot and his head in state
Adorn the Picard noble's gate;
And this was written underneath
The shrivelled eyes and grinning teeth—
"Good Master Wolves, believe not all
That mothers say when children squall."
THE LION GROWN OLD.
A Lion, once the terror of the plain
(Borne clown with age, and weakened by decay)
Against rebellious vassals fought in vain,
And found his foes the victors of the fray.
The Horse advanced, and gave his king a kick—
The Wolf a bite—the Ox a brutal butt:
Meanwhile the Lion, worn, and sad, and sick,
Could scarce resent this, the "unkindest cut."
But when an Ass came running to the place,
The monarch murmured, with his latest breath,
"Enough! I wished to die, but this disgrace
Imparts a twofold bitterness to death."