"Say you so, Senor?—look!—yon long-neck'd flock,
Each bird of it on one foot, ends the matter;
Ay—there they stand,—as firm as any rock,
I swear by ev'ry dish I ever broke, or platter."
Straight to the flock, flight, covey, (we've no name
In Albion, to designate such game.)
Rush'd Ayala, whose hearty psho! psho! psho!
Took the cranes off one leg,—discovering two,
As up they rose, on rustling, sullen wing:
"Well cook?" "Why, body of my soul, sir, there's the thing,