butter casks: 
    And it seemed as if a voice
    (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
    Is breathed) called out, ’Oh, rats, rejoice! 
    The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! 
    So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
    Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’
    And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
    All ready staved, like a great sun shone
    Glorious scarce an inch before me,
    Just as methought it said, ’Come bore me!’—­
    I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”

    VIII.

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.  “Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes!  Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!”—­when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a—­“First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

    IX.

    A thousand guilders!  The Mayor looked blue;
    So did the Corporation too. 
    For council dinners made rare havoc
    With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
    And half the money would replenish
    Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. 
    To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
    With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! 
    “Beside,” quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,
    “Our business was done at the river’s brink;
    We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
    And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. 
    So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
    From the duty of giving you something for drink,
    And a matter of money to put into your poke;
    But as for the guilders, what we spoke
    Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
    Beside, our losses have made us thrifty: 
    A thousand guilders!  Come, take fifty!”

    X.

    The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,
    “No trifling!  I can’t wait, beside! 
    I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
    Bagdad, and accept the prime
    Of the head-cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
    For having left, in the caliph’s kitchen,
    Of a nest of scorpions, no survivor: 
    With him I proved no bargain-driver,
    With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! 
    And folks who put me in a passion
    May find me pipe to another fashion.”

    XI.

    “How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I’ll brook
    Being worse treated than a cook? 
    Insulted by a lazy ribald
    With idle pipe and vesture piebald? 
    You threaten us, fellow?  Do your worst,
    Blow your pipe there till you burst!”

    XII.

    Once more he stept into the street,
    And to his lips again
    Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
    And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
    Soft notes as yet musician’s