There's in the world a cursed race,
Of nature so perverse and base,
If from the gallows you should save,
A dangerous enemy you have.
A countryman a serpent found,
Stiffen'd with frost upon the ground,
And took her home; but when the fire
Began new vigor to inspire,
Swelling her neck with angry eyes,
She fills the cot with hissing cries.
The rustic then his axe did take,
"Is this then the return you make?
Is this your gratitude?" he said,
And knock'd the reptile on the head.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]