And when she had freedom to roam,
  She fancied the life of a ranger;
And led off her brood, far from home,
  To fall into mischief or danger.

She’d trail through the grass to be mown,
  And call all her children to follow;
And scratch up the seeds that were sown,
  Then, lie in their places and wallow.

She’d go where the corn in the hill,
  Its first little blade had been shooting,
And try, by the strength of her bill,
  To learn if the kernel was rooting.

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.

The owner then said, “Master Hawk,
  If you love my chickens so dearly,
Come down to my yard for a walk,
  That you may address them more nearly.”

But, “No,” thought the sharp-taloned foe
  Of Biddy, “my circuit is higher! 
If I to his premises go. 
  ’Twill be when I see he’s not nigh her.”

The Farmer strewd barley, and toled
  The chickens the brush to run under,
And left them, while Hawk growing bold,
  Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.

As closer and closer he drew,
  With appetite stronger and stronger,
He found he’d but one thing to do,
  And plunged, to defer it no longer.

But now he had come to a pause,
  At once in the net-work entangled,
While through it his head and his claws
  In hopeless vacuity dangled.

The chicks saw him hang overhead,
  Where they for their barley had huddled;
And all in a flutter they fled,
  And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.

The Farmer came out to his snare,
  He saw the bold captive was in it;
And said, “If this play be unfair,
  Remember, I did not begin it!”