"Why are those tears? Why droops your head?
Say is your swain or husband dead?"
The farmer's wife said: "You know well
The salt was spilt,--to me it fell;
And then to add loss unto loss,
The knife and fork were laid across.
On Friday evening, 'tis too true,
Bounce in my lap a coffin flew.
Some dire misfortune it portends:
I tremble for my absent friends."
"Dame," said the neighbour, "tremble not:
Be all these prodigies forgot;
The while, at least, you eat your dinner
Bid the foul fiend avaunt--the sinner!
And soon as Betty clears the table
For a dessert, I'll read a fable.
"Betwixt her panniers rocked, on Dobbin
A matron rode to market bobbing,
Indulging in a trancelike dream
Of money for her eggs and cream;
When direful clamour from her broke:
'A raven on the left-hand oak!
His horrid croak bodes me some ill.'
Here Dobbin stumbled; 'twas down-hill,
And somehow he with failing legs
Fell, and down fell the cream and eggs.
She, sprawling, said, 'You rascal craven!
You--nasty--filthy--dirty--raven!'
'Goody,' said raven, 'spare your clamour,
There nothing here was done by glamour;
Get up again and wipe your gown,
It was not I who threw you down;
For had you laid your market ware
On Dun--the old sure-footed mare--
Though all the ravens in the Hundred
Had croaked till all the Hundred wondered,
Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,
And you, good woman, saved your eggs.'"