The Owl and The Cuckow

IF we look round the world, we find
Each creature has it's task assign'd.
The smallest bird obtains not rest,
Till it with labour forms a nest;
And ev'ry insect has its bole,
And creeps not in another's hole;
For if they vary from this plan,
We see them scouted by their clan.
        A CUCKOW , whom all birds detest
For laying in another's nest,
Was taken in the very fact,
And try'd according to the act.

An owl was judge; the juryman
Young robins, linnets, larks and wren;
Counsellors were chiefly sparrows,
Pert and bold, and keen as arrows;
Th' attorney was a bird of prey,
Whose suits succeed as folks can pay.
But lucky was the Cuckow's cause;
For what with blunders, and the flaws,
She fairly got off uncondemn'd,
'Tho by the feather'd court contemn'd.
And having lost an honest name,
She went on still, and sin'd the same.
With boist'rous and clam'rous tongue,
She "Cuckow" cry'd till valleys rung.
        A Ringdove, ever mild and tame,
Said--"You possess no kind of shame;
"Or would you make the air resound
"A name, wherein no virtue's found?
"In your case, I should die with spleen,
"At least be neither heard nor seen."

        "How mighty squeamish some folks are,"
The Cuckow cry'd; "you make me stare:
"What tho' a saucy owl has screech'd,
"My character is unimpeach'd;
"I've been acquitted of all blame,
"And own I've neither fear nor shame."
        Reply'd the Dove--"Your are too elate,
"I think your courage is too great,
"Your shame in truth not great enough--
"Adieu!"--and left her in a huff.
        Bright Sol was sinking in the west,
Just as an Owl slip'd off her nest:
Both judge and jury were forgot,
Off flew the Cuckow to the spot;
Eager her errors to repeat,
Informally she took a seat.
        The Owl of mischief now aware,
Return'd with diligence and care,
And found the Cuckow self-betray'd,
Sitting amidst the eggs she'd laid.

Escape was vain--a hooting screech
Call'd all the owls within their reach.
Aided only by their fury,
They, without a judge or jury,
Stop'd the Cuckow's treacherous ways,
By ending finally her days;
But ere she dy'd, the Ringdove's word
Fresh to her memory recurr'd:
"My boast'd courage, void of shame,
"Now proves," she cry'd, "I've been to blame."

MORAL.

Those who in vice persist too long,
Find temptation still more strong;
With courage false, then brave all shame;
From gallows sav'd, would do the same.

Original fables by a Lady

Printed by W. Calvert, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn, for B. Crosby and Co. London, 1810

To your Royal Highness the following Fables are dedicated, with a wish that in an interval of leisure some transient amusement may be obtained.