In a dairy a crow,
Having ventured to go,
Some food for her young ones to seek,
Flew up in the trees
With a fine piece of cheese,
Which she joyfuly held in her beak.
A fox who lived by,
To the tree saw her fly,
And to share in the prize he made a vow,
For, having just dined,
He for cheese felt inclined,
So he went and sat under the bough.
She was cunning he knew,
But so was he, too,
And with flattery adapted his plan;
For he knew if she'd speak,
It must fall from his beak,
So, bowing politely, began:
"'Tis a very fine day,"
(Not a word did she say),
"The wind, I believe, ma'am, is south:
A fine harvest for peas;"
He then looked at the cheese,
But the crow did not open her mouth.
Sly Reynard, not tired,
He plumage admired:
"How charming! how brilliant its hue!
The voice must be fine
Of a bird so divine,
Ah, let me hear it, pray do.
Believe me I long
To hear a sweet song;"
The silly crow foolishly tries;
She scarce gave one squall,
When the cheese she let fall,
And the fox ran away with the prize.