Into a cider-press’s gripe; 130 And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter casks; And it seemed as if a voice 135 (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! 140 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.’ 145 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, 150 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!’ A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; 155 So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havock With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. 160 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy 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, 165 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 in your poke; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 170 Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!’ The Piper’s face fell, and he cried, ‘No trifling! I can’t wait, beside! 175 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-- 180 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.’