Classic Poem

A Crow upon a lofty tree
Did build her sticky nest;
And Younglings did she bring to light,
In number five at least.

One morning, on a summer's day,
Did peep each youngling Crow,
And spied upon a brambling-bush
Some youngling Wrens below.

These simple Wrens in happy glee
Did spread their little wing;
And, lightsome, hopp'd from bush to bush,
And merrily did sing.

" Poor humble creatures!" cried the Crows;
" Each is a beggar wight:
Look up to us, and see our state;
Our house's lofty height.

" We look into the beamy skies,
While you through hedges wade:
We gaze upon the morning sun,
While ye are lost in shade.

" Poor imps, depart, nor here offend;
Take off each silly face:
This hill was only made for Crows;
Then do not us disgrace.

" If you do not this region quit,
We'll dung upon you soon." —
The smiling Wrens made answer none,
But trill'd their little tune.

Short time had pass'd, when suddenly
Grim Boreas 'gan howl;
The thunder crack'd, the lightning flash'd,
And frighted Man and Fowl.

While thus the dreadful thunder crack'd,
And lightning broad did flash;
The limb whereon the Crows were perch'd
Did give a sudden crash.

Down came the limb, and with it down
Did tumble each young Crow:
Some broke their legs, and some their wings,
And doleful look'd below.

'Twas now the time for Wrens to jeer;
So forth did fly the train,
And, twittering, saw with smiles the Crows
All sprawling on the plain.

Then taunting, an arch Wren began:
" Sir Crows, of high renown,
Ye came, by this your dirty trim,
All in a hurry down: —

" And by the look of all your limbs,
And feathers sous'd with rain,
It will be some small time before
Your graces mount again.

" Proud fools, how silly ye descend
From skies to dirty fens!
Thank Heaven, with hedges we're content,
And happy to be wrens."