And when she went out on a walk
Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles,
The covetous eye of a Hawk
Delighted in marking her rambles.
"I spy," to himself he would say,
"A prize of which I'll be the winner!"
So down would he pounce on his prey,
And bear off a chicken for dinner.
The poor frighted matron, that heard
The cry of her youngling in dying,
Would scream at the merciless bird,
That high with his booty was flying.
But shrieks could not ease her distress,
Nor grief her lost darling recover.
She now had a chicken the less,
For acting the part of a rover.
And there lay the feathers, all torn.
And flying one way and another,
That still her dear child might have worn,
Had she been more wise as a mother.
Her owner then thought he must teach
Dame Biddy a little subjection;
And cooped her up, out of the reach
Of hawking, with time for reflection.
And, throwing a net o'er a pile
Of brush-wood that near her was lying,
He hoped to its meshes to wile
The fowler, that o'er her was flying.
For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,
And having a taste to renew it,
Sailed round near the coop, high in air,
With cruel intention, to view it.
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