Whistling with reeds on the broad river’s banks;
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king’s highway.
It was not too nice[1] to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;
’Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor’s wig, or the gentleman’s cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, “Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I’ll make you bow!”
And it made them bow without more ado,