But a vile cook, by some mad fancy bit,
My pretty cacklers kill’d, then stuff’d with sage,
And their sweet forms expos’d upon the spit.
The murd’ress next seiz’d on my tender mate;
Alas! he was too fat to run or fly;
Like his poor infants, yielded unto fate,
And with his giblets, Cook she made a pie.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old Goose,
Whose feeble steps have borne her to your door,
Broke down with sorrow, lame, and past all use,