A field in common share
  A Partridge and a Hare,
  And live in peaceful state,
  Till, woeful to relate! 
  The hunters mingled cry
  Compels the Hare to fly. 
  He hurries to his fort,
  And spoils almost the sport
  By faulting every hound
  That yelps upon the ground. 
  At last his reeking heat
  Betrays his snug retreat. 
  Old Tray, with philosophic nose,
  Snuffs carefully, and grows
  So certain, that he cries,
  “The Hare is here; bow wow!”
  And veteran Ranger now—­
  The dog that never lies—­
  “The Hare is gone,” replies. 
  Alas! poor, wretched Hare,
  Back comes he to his lair,
  To meet destruction there! 
  The Partridge, void of fear,
  Begins her friend to jeer:—­
  “You bragg’d of being fleet;
  How serve you, now, your feet?”
  Scarce has she ceased to speak—­
  The laugh yet in her beak—­
  When comes her turn to die,
  From which she could not fly. 
  She thought her wings, indeed,
  Enough for every need;
  But in her laugh and talk,
  Forgot the cruel hawk!

  The Weasel in the Granary

  A Weasel through a hole contrived to squeeze,
      (She was recovering from disease),
      Which led her to a farmer’s hoard. 
  There lodged, her wasted form she cherish’d;
    Heaven knows the lard and victuals stored
      That by her gnawing perish’d! 
      Of which the consequence
      Was sudden corpulence. 
      A week or so was past,
    When having fully broken fast,
      A noise she heard, and hurried
    To find the hole by which she came,
    And seem’d to find it not the same;
      So round she ran, most sadly flurried;
    And, coming back, thrust out her head,
    Which, sticking there, she said,
    “This is the hole, there can’t be blunder: 
    What makes it now so small, I wonder,
  Where, but the other day, I pass’d with ease?”
      A Rat her trouble sees,
    And cries, “But with an emptier belly;
    You entered lean, and lean must sally.”

  The Wolf Turned Shepherd

    A Wolf, whose gettings from the flocks
      Began to be but few,
    Bethought himself to play the fox
      In character quite new. 
  A Shepherd’s hat and coat he took,
      A cudgel for a crook,
      Nor e’en the pipe forgot: 
    And more to seem what he was not,
    Himself upon his hat he wrote,
    “I’m Willie, shepherd of these sheep.” 
      His person thus complete,
      His crook in upraised feet,
    The impostor Willie stole upon the keep. 
    The proper Willie, on the grass asleep,
      Slept there, indeed, profoundly,
    His dog and pipe slept, also soundly;
      His drowsy sheep around lay. 
      As for the greatest number,
    Much bless’d the hypocrite their slumber
    And hoped to drive away the