All night for your safety my slumber I scorn;
Now when I would utter my ode to the morn
He mimics my melody with his fog-horn.
Wake! Wake!
I spy from my eyrie up here on this heap
That I am myself and the world is asleep.
The Ass
The style of these birds is too fine for to-day;
I see I must waken the world with my bray.
The Pigs