And of the yellow grains that grow
On the wheaten stalk be free.
Or a well-kneaded loaf or an obolos give,
Or what you will, for the crow must live.
If the gods have been bountiful to you to-day,
Oh, say not to her for whom we sing,
Say not, we implore you, nay,
To the bird of the cloudy wing.
A grain of salt will please her well,
And whoso this day that bestows,