Not a thrush is so kind
As to fly, and I find
I may whistle myself for a black-bird!
I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry,
Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,
And so weary an elf,
I am sick of myself,
And with Number One seem overloaded.
As well one might beat round St. Paul's,
And look out for a cock or a hen there;