"When will my foes be satisfied?
Turn where I will, I'm still pursu'd,
For having done the world some good!
Scarce have I reach'd this distant land,
When I'm assail'd on ev'ry hand.
These foes come here to seek me out,
And in their mad, infernal rout.
Would almost any means employ,
So that they might my life annoy,
Yes, even their own crops destroy.
I really think to glut their ire,
They'd set their very fields on fire."
Then to the reapers thus he said,—
"Come! let your wrath fall on my head;
You've hunted me like thing accurs'd,
And now, Messieurs, just do your worst!"
A busy worker at the sheaf,
By chance observ'd his mighty grief:
He seized him, held him up to view,
Then flung him where bright flowers grew:
"Go!" he exclaim'd, "where posies are;
Go, little friend, get supper there!"