A weather-vane on steeple top
Had stood for many a day,
And every year a coat of gold
Increased his aspect gay.
Subservient to the changing air,
Each puff he'd quickly learn
To obey with sycophantic twist
And never-failing turn.
A Heron once, from lowly fen,
Soared up in stately flight;
But, striking 'gainst the gilded vane,
He fell in sorry plight:
And as, with wounded wing, he lay
Down in the marsh below,
He thus addressed the glittering thing,
The cause of all his woe:
"Vain upstart! 'tis from such as thee
That Merit, lowly born,
In striving oft to win a name,
Wins nought but bitter scorn:
But for such treacherous knaves as thou,
What crowds of souls would soar
With lofty swoop, that now, like me,
Will mount, Ah! never more!
It fits thee well, that lacquer suit,
Base flunkey as thou art!
Though bright, it never covered brain;
Though gilded, ne'er a heart!
Rather than wear upon my back
Such livery as thine,
I'd earn an honest crust, and make
The scullion's calling mine."