A rustic starer, from his leafy nook—
The crow, hoarse cawing as we met his eye—
The squirrels, bickering on the oaks hard by;
Red-liveried elves, who taught their brains to say—
“Whene’er the cat doth sleep the mice may play.”
No more they feared the gun’s successless skill,
Banged with clear malice, and intent to kill,
But shelled their nuts with self-complacent air,
And chid as, plainly, for invading there.
Through loopholes of the intertwisted green