THE WILL OF THE DYING ASS.
No. 54.
While a boor, as poets tell,
Whacked his patient ass too well,
On the ground half dead it fell.
La sol fa,
On the ground half dead it fell,
La sol fa mi re ut.
Then with gesture sad and low,
Streaming eyes and words of woe,
He at length addressed it so:
"Had I known, my gentle ass,
Thou from me so soon wouldst pass,
I'd have swaddled thee, alas!
"Made for thee a tunic meet,
Shirt and undershirt complete,
Breeches, drawers of linen sweet.
"Rise awhile, for pity's sake,
That ere life your limbs forsake
You your legacies may make!"
Soon the ass stood up, and thus,
With a weak voice dolorous,
His last will proclaimed for us:
"To the magistrates my head,
Eyes to constables," he said,
"Ears to judges, when I'm dead;
"To old men my teeth shall fall,
Lips to wanton wooers all,
And my tongue to wives that brawl.