“Lend me a little corn!”—Absurd!
Of course she will not hear a word;
Thou wilt not win, for all thy pain,
From bulging sacks a single grain.
“Be off and scrape the binns!” she cries:
“Who sang in June, in winter dies.”
Thus doth the ancient tail impart
Fit moral for a miser’s heart;
Bids him all charity forget
And draw his purse-strings tighter yet.