A bare brown stone in a babbling brook,—
It was wanton to hurl it there, you say,—
And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook
(Yet the stream runs cooler) is washed away.
That begs the question; many a prater
Thinks such a suggestion a sound "stop thief!"
Which, may I ask, do you think the greater,
Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?
And if it were not so? Still you doubt?
Ah! yours is a birthday indeed, if so.