While in at gate flowed pick and raff, For catch is life to brotherhood; Each tribesman bent, thro' clean or draff, To swing his carp from out the mud. And every hoist and tackle told, As sure it ought, where sleek and trim, At scoop and dive for wriggling gold, The big Mouths join and steer the Swim. While coy, thro' fill of common eye, As fadged with tooth of safer breed, Smug Power yet found crumbs to fry, While sampling Chefs gave dainty heed. And snacks went 'round for taste and tout: The Home-cook swore the stuff was fine: "Why should such plums be ladled out To grunting clod and boorish swine?" "Not swell our own and proved Menu? This crowd at board keeps coming still: Suppose we shift, _à son insu_, To nab his joint, and eke the bill? "Or what's the same--we fix his stew, Put such a sauce in broth and dish-- Such plausive snap and tang o' True-- That none shall dream we came to fish; "But love of man was all we meant; Till, less in doubt each lode-star gaze, At Heaven's clear, tho' mute intent, By as we head, to hold her pace. "And this fellow, certes, has sore behoof To take a word from wiser mouths, Who has stretched his crib and smoky roof Whence North-from, down, the zone-line souths; "Almost a split--a crying jag; A scare at top, a threat, below; An ugly tuck that scrimps the bag We meant to fill as harvests grow. "In our big sail a plaguy reef, Were it not that craft o' his pert make With too much head have come to grief, Strew bottom up our rushing wake. "Against the owl what counts the mouse? But no. That strains a bit the proper zest: He shall have due of grounds and house, We'll dish for him as for the rest. "'Twill daze him, sure, our big provide, Till, on a breath, he vent his stare: 'Such doors as these had best be tried, Ere back to thatch and homely fare.' "And say he sulks, we'll coax him in: What does he care who carves the meat? So fill of fodder strew the bin, Who rules the loft, or heads the treat? "He will never quibble on a word, Give simple 'rob' a double sense; But loyal strain shall well accord With leave of thrift and competence. "And 'tis trite as dirt, where'er we go, The sleek slut, Trade, trots close at heel, 'Gainst whose hard sense how fares the saw, The musty fib--'Thou shalt not steal!' "Yes--we'll be his staff and hedge him fine, Till lust of Have like gospel read, And his backbone in the general spine Does merge its hump and dogged breed. "The idiot pluck with which he strove To shield his hearth with freehold fence, And rather wear the homely wove Than rig to suit our lofty sense.