Cut off and left the frogs in the brook,
To cry all night, till life’s last dregs,
“Give us our legs!—give us our legs!”
Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I ask’d what all this yell might mean,
When the spirit replied with a grin of glee,
“’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!”
I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,[90]
With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,