A luckless wight, in winter slow,
Travelling once a forest through
Cold and hungry, tired and wet,
Began in words like these to fret:
"Oh, what a sharp inclement day!
And what a dismal, dreary way!
No friendly cot, no cheering fields,
No food this howling forest yields;
I've nought in store or expectation!
There's nought before me but starvation."
"Not quite so bad," a voice replied;
Quickly the traveller turned aside,
And saw the satyr of the wood,
Who close beside his dwelling stood.
"Here is my cave hard by," said he,
"Walk in, you're welcome, pray be free."
The traveller did not hesitate,
Hoping for something good to eat,
But follow'd to his heart's content,
Blowing his finger as he went.
"Pray," said the satyr, "may I know
For what you blow your fingers so?"
"What! need you," said the man, "be told?--
To _warm_ my fingers, 'numb'd with cold."
"Indeed!" was all his host replied,
Intent some pottage to provide,
Which heated well, with spice infused,
Was to his shivering guest produced:
So hot it was, as Esop sung,
It made our traveller scald his tongue;
And wishing not again to do it,
Our hero could not wait, but blew it.
"What?" said his host, in accent rough,
"Is not your pottage hot enough?"
"Yes," said the man, "full well I know it,
'Tis far too hot, that's why I blow it."
"You artful villain! do you so?"
His host replied, with angry brow;
"My cave shall not a moment hold
A man that blows both hot and cold!
By none but rogues can that be done,
You double-dealing wretch, begone!"