Dame Biddy

Dame Biddy abode in a coop,
Because it so chanced, that dame Biddy
Had round her a family group
Of chicks, young, and helpless and giddy.

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,
'T will be when I see he's not nigh her?

The Farmer strewed 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 had he 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!"

He then put a cork on his beak,
The airy assassin disarming,
Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,
By blunting each talent for harming.

And into the coop he was thrown:
The chickens hid under their mother,
For he, by his feathers was known
As he, who had murdered their brother.

Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,
Determined to show him no quarter,
In action gave vent to her spite;
As motherly tenderness taught her.

She shouted, and blustered; and then
Attacked the poor captive unfriended;
And you, (who have witnessed a hen
In anger,) may guess how it ended.

She made him a touching address,
If pecking and scratching could do it,
Till, sinking in silent distress,
He perished before she got through it.

We would not, however, convey
A thought like approving the fury,
That gave, in this summary way,
Punition, without judge or jury.

Whenever thus given, it tends
To lessen the angry bestower;
The fowl that inflicts it, descends—
The featherless biped, still lower.