THE FARMER’S GUN THE WORK HATH DONE.
Bang! Bang! again for every ball
Wounded or dead the young Crows fall;
The old Crows wheeling in the skies
Helpless behold their agonies,
And, piteous cawing up on high,
Answer their young ones dying cry—
Who fall, poor little suffering things,
With broken legs and wounded wings.
AT DAY’S DECLINE THE MOON DOTH SHINE.
At last the sun begins to sink,
And soon is on the very brink
Of setting in the quiet sea;
The ploughing horses leave the lea,
The weary workman homeward goes
Thinking of supper and repose;
And darkness closes o’er the scene,
Where late the murderous sport had been:
The moon, with pale and pitying looks,
Shines on the slaughter-field of rooks:
The owlets hoot, from ivy bower,
In the grey embattled tower—
“Tuwit, tuwit, towhoo!” they say,
And echoing through the ruins grey,
The sound disturbs the daily sleep
Of bats who dwell in dungeon keep,
Who ’mong the ruins nightly flit,
And under aged arches sit.