  "Why are those tears? Why droops your head? Say is your swain or husband dead?" The farmer's wife said: "You know well The salt was spilt,—to me it fell; And then to add loss unto loss, The knife and fork were laid across. On Friday evening, 'tis too true, Bounce in my lap a coffin flew. Some dire misfortune it portends: I tremble for my absent friends." "Dame," said the neighbour, "tremble not: Be all these prodigies forgot; The while, at least, you eat your dinner Bid the foul fiend avaunt—the sinner! And soon as Betty clears the table For a dessert, I'll read a fable. "Betwixt her panniers rocked, on Dobbin A matron rode to market bobbing, Indulging in a trancelike dream Of money for her eggs and cream; When direful clamour from her broke: 'A raven on the left-hand oak! His horrid croak bodes me some ill.' Here Dobbin stumbled; 'twas down-hill, And somehow he with failing legs Fell, and down fell the cream and eggs. She, sprawling, said, 'You rascal craven! You—nasty—filthy—dirty—raven!' 'Goody,' said raven, 'spare your clamour, There nothing here was done by glamour; Get up again and wipe your gown, It was not I who threw you down; For had you laid your market ware On Dun—the old sure-footed mare— Though all the ravens in the Hundred Had croaked till all the Hundred wondered, Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs, And you, good woman, saved your eggs.'" |
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