The Robins Revenged

TWO Robins, in a bitter frost,
When the creation seem'd half lost
In dropping icicles and snow,
On feeble wing from woodlands go,
And both for shelter, and for food,
Off Myra's premises intrude.
But had they known 'twas hers, alas!
They ne'er had come to peck her glass.
        Myra had led a pleasant life,
And many years had been a wife:
So fortunate in ev'ry state,
She never had repin'd at fate.
Some e'en pretended to explain,
Her very losses were her gain;

For it was clearly understood,
She still prefer'd her widowhood.
She'd garden, house, and equipage,
With ev'ry thing that could engage,
One thing excepted--Who could guess
'Twas charity? not more nor less.
This was a want she had indeed.
'Twas vain for poverty to plead;
She gave folks only what they earn'd;
And what she lent must be return'd.
To be infirm, or to be sick,
Was ever call'd an artful trick.
And if babes languished for food,
She wish'd that folks would feed their brood.
        Closely sat the birds together.
Myra's heart was like the weather,
Too much frozen for to melt
At the distresses which they felt.
The wind their little red breasts shook;
Their bead-black eyes for pity look;

While their notes, with sweet expression,
Of their suff'rings make confession;
And in a soft and warb'ling strain,
Implore for crumbs of bread in vain.
        "On bread," she cry'd, "my chickens feed;
"And 'twould be wasting it indeed,
"To give a little shabby crew
"Of starving Robins, such as you.
"I eat my poultry when 'tis fed
"And fatten'd with the crumbs of bread.
"Bad luck, they say, a Robin brings,
"So haste away, ye gaping things."
        "We stay," the Robins said, "and trust
"Your prophecy may turn out just.
"And may hearts devoid of merit,
"Feel the achs of a mean spirit."
        Weak superstition join'd with wrath,
Made her look very fierce, in troth:

And dinner serv'd, she sat her down,
With sullen air and angry frown;
Greatly enraged as she carv'd,
She wish'd the Robins might be starv'd;
And flashes from her eyes were thrown,
As she demanded--"Are they flown?"
Reply when gave--"They still are there,"
Becoming faint, she wish'd for air:
Just then she heard the Robin's note;
Sighs issued from her swelling throat,
Her breath seem'd flying past recall;
She sunk, Death put an end to all.
        When Superstition's head uprears,
The work is sometimes done, she fears;
And things most strangely do fall out,
To leave the wond'ring world in doubt.
The Robins surely could not sing
For any mischief they could bring;
Yet still, in this uncommon case,
They were reveng'd, their wish took place;

Rage, which a deadly aspect wears,
Might cause to close the fatal shears,
Yet wanting proof the fact to clear;
Suffice, she dy'd without a tear.
This was implicitly believ'd,
And no one thought himself deceiv'd.

MORAL.

A sordid mind will ever prove
The bane of friendship and of love.

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.