From laying her eggs in the sand,
Trotted under the boughs of a mulberry tree,
Where a silkworm was weaving her band.
“Good day,” said the worm, wishing much to be heard,
“Any news in the papers, my dear?”
“Who’s there—is it you, my good friend?” said the bird;
“Why, no, not a line that I hear.
“Except—yes, I met with one comical thing
(Design’d, I suppose, for a skit),
An account of a feather I brush’d from my wing,