On crumpled claw,
Come limping a-poor little lame Jackdaw;
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seem’d to be turn’d the wrong way;—
His pinions droop’d—he could hardly stand,—
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, ‘That’s him!—