Pull'd hair and tore their ragged clothes,
And black'd each other's eyes.
He who at last the object gain'd,
Lost his few locks that still remain'd;
And when his prize he look'd upon,
Lo! 'twas a broken comb he'd won!
FABLE XXX.
THE TWO PEASANTS.
"Bill!" said Luke one cloudy day,
In a sad foreboding tone,
"Just look at yonder cloud, I pray!
How very black 'tis grown!
Such threat'ning clouds as that portend
Some awful end."
"Why?" answer'd Bill, "why think you so?
'Twill only be a common blow."
"Why!" replied Luke in a great pet;
"It is a hail storm, and I'll bet
'Twill ruin vineyards, barley, wheat,
And ev'ry thing we raise to eat.
Nothing to live on will remain:
Famine will follow, and in train
The pest will come, and we shall fall,
Village, people, crops and all!"
"The pest seize on your storm!"
Said Bill, getting rather warm;
"Don't take alarm!
For rest assur'd, the world, my friend,
