"
There stood by, some of the bristly tribe,
Who felt so touched by the peeper's gibe,
Their backs were up; for they thought, at least,
It aimed at them the _low, mean beast:_
And they challenged Chick to her tiny face,
In their sharp, high notes, and their awful base.
Then old Chanticleer to his mount withdrew,
And gave from his rostrum a loud halloo.
He blew his clarion strong and shrill,
Till he turned all eyes to his height, the hill;
When he noised it round with his loudest crow,
That 't was none of the _plumed_ ones brought so low.
And, "Bow-wow-wow!" went the sentry Cur;
But he soon strolled off in a grave demur,
When he saw on the wonder, _hair_, like his,
_Two ears_, and a kind of _doubtful phiz;_
And he deemed it prudent to pause, and hark
In silence, for fear that the sight might _bark_!
At last came Puss, with a cautious pat
To feel the pulse of the quivering Bat,
That had not, under her tender paw,
A limb to move, nor a breath to draw!
Then she called her kit for a mother's gift,
And stilled its mew with the racy lift.
When Mole of the awful death was told,
"Alas!" cried she, "he had grown too bold--
Too vain and proud! Had he only kept,
Like the _prudent Mole_, in his nest, and slept.
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