With couchant cringe, and flattering tale,
Smooth Bawty[1] did so far prevail,
That Musick gave her leave to litter;
(But mark what follow'd — faith! she bit her)
Whole baskets full of bits and scraps,
And broth enough to fill her paps;
For, well she knew, her numerous brood,
For want of milk, would suck her blood.
But when she thought her pains were done,
And now 'twas high time to be gone;
In civil terms, — "My friend," said she,
"My house you've had on courtesy;
And now I earnestly desire,
That you would with your cubs retire;
For, should you stay but one week longer,
I shall be starved with cold and hunger."
The guest reply'd — "My friend, your leave
I must a little longer crave;
Stay till my tender cubs can find
Their way — for now, you see, they're blind;
But, when we've gathered strength, I swear,
We'll to our barn again repair."
The time pass'd on; and Musick came,
Her kennel once again to claim;
But Bawty, lost to shame and honour,
Set all her cubs at once upon her;
Made her retire, and quit her right,
And loudly cry'd — "A bite! a bite!"
THE MORAL.
Thus did the Grecian wooden horse
Conceal a fatal armed force:
No sooner brought within the walls,
But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.
