The Birds and The Gardener

A CHERRY-TREE the Birds allur'd;
The evil could not be endur'd;
So something, under veil of night,
Was plac'd, well fitted to affright:
Nor did the scheme of terror fail,
Silence pervaded all the vale;
Music, that strikes the list'ning ear,
Seem'd now to be o'ercome by fear,
All harmony dispell'd and fled,
Music herself appearing dead.
Thus not a Bird could raise a note,
To swell with joy his little throat,
And, as of Tantalus we read,
Were doom'd to look, but not to feed;

So where they tempted with the view
Of fruit, that daily riper grew.
Attentively they all began
To mark the figure, looking man.
Not any, with the keenest eye,
The smallest motion could descry,
Except a rag, that here and there
Just lightly flutter'd in the air.
        When, perceiving the deception,
Wond'ring at their misconception,
All in a chirping joyful shout
Exclaim'd--"The secret is found out--
" 'Tis wood, 'tis straw, a hat, and wig."
So flying nearer on a twig,
Finding safety now, and pleasure,
Near ally'd, and move in measure,
All resolving to be merry,
Each began to pick his cherry;
But moderation none possest,
And short the moments they were blest.

        The Gard'ner, when he next return'd,
With rage and indignation burn'd,
Few cherries seen upon the tree,
"Confound the cunning Birds," said he.
So in resentment lime he got,
And smear'd it all about the spot,
The ground, the trees, the leaves, and all;
Birds caught he plenty, great and small.
And being captur'd all alive,
Some much enrag'd, for freedom strive;
While those most tame and humble, thought
'Twas wrong to aggravate their fault.
        The Blackbird and the Thrush implore,
And promise ne'er to rob him more;
While the impatient find it vain,
Their struggles but increase their pain;
So joining notes, all cry'd--"Alack!
"We never, never, will come back."
        "No pity in my breast is found,"
The Gard'ner said: "you knew no bound;

"Gluttony has you degraded,
"Nor can judgment be evaded;
"Justice awhile may sometimes wait,
"But still she cometh, tho' 'tis late.
"With comfort, some degree of praise,
" 'Twas in your pow'r to end your days;
"But he who's guilty of excess,
"Must ever suffer, more or less."

MORAL.

Happy are those who don't abuse
Pleasures, but moderation use.

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.