From some one's line had hauled a sheet,
The monstrous pudding to infold
While in the boiling pot it rolled.
The rogues were flour from head to feet
Before the mixture was complete.
Like snow-birds in a drift of snow
They worked and elbowed in the dough,
Till every particle they brought
Was in the mass before them wrought.
And soon the sheet around the pile
| Was wrapped in most artistic style. Then every plan and scheme was tried To hoist it o'er the caldron's side. At times, it seemed about to fall, Yet none forsook their post through fear, But harder worked with danger near. They pulled and hauled and orders gave, And pushed and pried with stick and stave, |
Until, in spite of height and heat,
They had performed the trying feat.
| To take the pudding from the pot They might have found as hard and hot. But water on the fire they threw, And then to work again they flew. And soon the steaming treasure sat Upon a stone both broad and flat, Which answered for a table grand, When nothing better was at hand. |
| Some think that Brownies never eat, But live on odors soft and sweet. That through the verdant woods proceed Or steal across the dewy mead; But those who could have gained a sight Of them, around their pudding white, Would have perceived that elves of air Can relish more substantial fare. |
| They clustered close, and delved and ate Without a knife, a spoon, or plate; Some picking out the plums with care, And leaving all the pastry there. While some let plums and currants go, But paid attention to the dough. The purpose of each Brownie's mind Was not to leave a crumb behind, That, when the morning sun should shine Through leafy tree and clinging vine, |
No traces of their sumptuous feast