The cricket to the corn-crake came one day,
Shivering, yet buzzing in his wanton way,
And said: “I’m slain
By hunger, brother, turn thou not from me;
’Tis winter, and I only beg of thee
A little grain.”
The corn-crake grinned and said in tone sublime:
“Where wert thou hidden in the harvest time,
Thou dinning drone?
Why didst thou not come with us to the fields
To gather something for thy winter meals
Of what had grown?”
“O, I was entertaining with my rhymes
The vineyards, and the fig trees, and the thymes
The summer long.”
“No then,” replied the corn-crake, “not a seed
Have I for such as thou; go home and feed
Upon thy Song.”