And flocks of water-fowl are seen
Indulging their fowl play.
There's rev'rend Rook, and Daw, his clerk,
Sitting with well-stuff'd craws,
Read to lend a helping hand
To forward the good caws.
Each bird a poet now becomes,
And sings some sad refrain:
The Yellow-hammer ev'n has got
His yellow-ham'rous strain.