Plish essays to pull him clear;
Nip! the plague's on Plish's ear.
See! they run heels over head,
Into neighbor's garden-bed.
Kritze-kratze! what will be—
Come, sweet flower-plot, of thee?
At that moment Madam Mieding,
With fresh oil, her lamp is feeding;
And her heart comes near to breaking,
With those pests her garden wrecking.