The King of Animals a <i>battue</i> made Upon his birthday, bent to fill his bags. The Lion's game is not with sparrows played; But boars of bulk, and good-sized portly stags. For an ally in this affair, He had an able minister. The Ass, with Stentor's voice, served as his hunting-horn; The Lion hid deep 'mid the thickest wood, And ordered him to bray loud as he could; So that the clamour shrilly borne, Might drive from every nook and lair Those not initiated to the sound. The hideous tempest came; the air Shook with the dreadful discord; round It flew, and scared the fiercest forest creatures; They fled with terror-stricken features. And fell into the ready snare, Where the King Lion stood to meet his prey. "Have I not served thee brave and true?" The Ass said, taking to himself the palm. "Yes," quoth the Lion, grave and calm, "'Twas nobly brayed; I own to you, Had I not known your name and race, I had been almost frightened too!" Had he been rash, the Ass, his rage Would not have hidden, I'll engage. Just was the rallying, though severe; For who can bear a bragging Ass? It does not fit their rank or class, And very ill becomes their business here.
I've read in some old Fabulist, I know, A second Nibblelard, of Cats The Alexander, and of Rats The Attila, struck many a fatal blow; And this exterminating creature Was quite a Cerberus by nature. (The author writes) For miles away, This Cat was feared; he'd vowed, they say, To clear the world of mice, And in a trice. The disks within a jar hung gingerly, "The death to Rats:" the traps, and gins, and springs, The nooses, poisons, and such things, Were nothing to this Cat, but merely toys. Soon as he heard no longer stir or noise, The mice being prisoned in each hole, Cheek and jowl; So that it was in vain to hope for prey, He tried another "lay." Shammed death, laid down fast holding by a cord; A trickster, eager for the horde-- The mice, good folk, deem he is hung For stealing meat or cheese, tight strung For scratching some one, or for breaking done. At last they think the monster's sand is run; His funeral will be quite a gala day. Then out they slowly creep, First one small nose, and then another, Next a young mouse, then an old brother, And then they scurry back in fright; But four step once more to the light, And lastly all come out to play, And now begins another sort of treat: