LOB LIE BY THE FIRE
He squats by the fire
On his three-legged stool,
When all in the house
With slumber are full.
And he warms his great hands,
Hanging loose from each knee.
And he whistles as soft
As the night wind at sea.
For his work now is done;
All the water is sweet;
He has turned each brown loaf,
And breathed magic on it.
The milk in the pan,
And the bacon on beam
He has "spelled" with his thumb,
And bewitched has the dream.
Not a mouse, not a moth,
Not a spider but sat,
And quaked as it wondered
What next he'd be at.
But his heart, O, his heart—
It belies his great nose;
And at gleam of his eye
Not a soul would suppose