For whom I’ve laid, aye, many and many an egg,
Seiz’d up a stone, and this left pinion broke.
To go from hence you see I am not able;
Oh! take me in, the wind blows piercing cold;
Short is the passage to the barn or stable;
Alas! I’m weak, and miserably old.
St. Michael’s fatal day approaches near;
A day we all have reason sure to curse;
E’en at the name my blood runs cold with fear,
So inimical is that Saint to us.