Her sage disgust, at the quack to throw. 
The old Turk strutted, and gobbled aloud,
Till he gathered around him a babbling crowd;
When each proud neck in the whole doomed group
Was poked with a condescending stoop,
And a pointed beak, at the prostrate Bat,
Which they eyed askance, as to ask, “What’s that?”
But none could tell; and the poults moved off,
In their select circle to leer and scoff.

The Goslings skulked; but their wise mamma,
She hissed, and screamed, till the Lambs cried, “Ba-a!”
When up from his straw sprang the gaping Calf,
With a gawky leap and a clammy laugh. 
He stared—­retreated—­and off he went,
The wondrous news in his voice to vent,—­
That he had discovered a monster there—­
A bird four-footed, and clothed with hair! 
And had dashed his heel at the sight so odd,
It looked, he thought, like a heathen god!

The scuddling Chicks cried, “Peep, peep, peep! 
For Boss looks high, but not very deep! 
It is not a fowl! ’tis the worst of things,—­
low, mean beast, with the use of wings,
So noiseless round on the air to skim,
You know not when you are safe from him.”

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. 
Or worked underground, where none could see,
He might have still been alive, like me!”

While thus, so early the poor Bat died,
A cry, that it was but the fall of pride,
And signs of mirth, or of scorn, were all
He had from those who beheld his fall. 
They each could triumph, and each condemn;
But no kind pity was shown by them.