"Have done, thou wicked Mannikin, And hold that hand of thine; I marvel what Ulysses 'twas Set thee to keep the swine! If from that noble forest-tree Thou loppest every shoot, Where, when another autumn comes, Will be the needful fruit? 'Tis well to feed thy bristly herd, Ay, feed them to the fill; But leave the oak-tree unprofaned With all its branches still: Lest, when the swine have eaten all The food that thou canst send, They take a horrid fancy next To dine on thee, my friend!" VIII. 'Twas thus I spoke in warning. Still The Mannikin said, "Nay!" But ever chattered busily, And ever sawed away. I marked the branch declining fast, Its fibres creaking sore: I heard the grunting of the beasts Still fiercer than before. High up into the air was thrown Each grim uncleanly snout, With wriggling tails and cloven hoofs They galloped all about. They flung the mire and pebbles up, In their unholy glee, And held a Satan's carnival Beneath the fated tree! IX. But as I gazed in wonderment, The sky grew dark above; A whirlwind sharp and fitfully Among the branches drove; There was swaying, shrieking, groaning, Throughout the forest wide, And the hurricane came downward With an angry angel's stride. Then, right across the welkin, shot The red and dazzling levin, And the thunder brattled growlingly Within the dome of heaven. 'Twere better in an hour like that Far off at home to be, Than watching silly Mannikins Upon the greenwood tree! X. The first flash scared the porkers; Their nasal snort grew still-- The second sent them cowering; As low-bred monsters will-- The third with triple fervency, And answering peal broke out; Then helter-skelter from the tree Rushed forth the filthy rout. I looked up for my Mannikin-- I saw him clinging there To branch and twig, to bark and bough, The image of despair. And ever as the gust blew strong, He clutched with desperate paw, And wildly chattered in affright-- "The foul fiend take the saw!" XI. By Tamworth town a hermit dwells, Who riddles strange can read; A wizard once of dreaded power, And versed in many a creed. Of Michael Scott no wilder tales Have ever yet been told: Men say he knew the wond'rous art Of multiplying gold. But now his magic wand is broke, His tricksy spirits gone, And on a backward bench he sits, Forsaken and alone. To him I went, and told him straight The things that I had seen! "O holy man, I pray thee say, What may this vision mean?" XII.