A Fable.

Speaking within compass, as to fabulousness I prefer

Southcote to Northcote.

PIGROGROMITUS.

One day, or night, no matter where or when,

Sly Reynard, like a foot-pad, laid his pad

Right on the body of a speckled Hen,

Determined upon taking all she had;

And like a very bibber at his bottle,

Began to draw the claret from her throttle;

Of course it put her in a pretty pucker,

And with a scream as high

As she could cry,

She call’d for help — she had enough of sucker.

Dame Partlet’s scream

Waked, luckily, the house-dog from his dream,

And, with a savage growl

In answer to the fowl,

He bounded forth against the prowling sinner,

And, uninvited, came to the Fox Dinner.

Sly Reynard, heedful of the coming doom,

Thought, self-deceived,

He should not be perceived,

Hiding his brush within a neighboring broom!

But quite unconscious of a Poacher’s snare,

And caught in copper noose,

And looking like a goose,

Found that his fate had “hung upon a hare“;

His tricks and turns were rendered of no use to him,

And worst of all he saw old surly Tray

Coming to play

Tray-Deuce with him.

Tray, an old Mastiff bred at Dunstable,

Under his Master, a most special constable,

Instead of killing Reynard in a fury,

Seized him for legal trial by a Jury;

But Juries —?sop was a sheriff then —

Consisted of twelve Brutes and not of Men.

But first the Elephant sat on the body —

I mean the Hen — and proved that she was dead............