When Autumn enters on his annual cycle,
We offer up the fatted goose
Mid fragrant steam of apple-juice,
Hear our appeal, O Michael!
Sir, do not try our piety too sore,
Bidding us sacrifice—a wrench how cruel!—
Her whom we prize all geese before—
The one that lays that precious ore,
Our priceless daily fuel.
Her output, as it is, shows want of will