And now he struggles, all in vain, To reach some little bough again; But, though he heaves with might and main, This honey holds his ribs, sirs, So tight, a barque might sooner try To steer a cargo through the sky Than Bill, thus honey-logged, to fly By flopping of his jib, sirs! _Chorus:_ His tops'l and his jib, sirs! Like Oberon in the hive his beard With wax and honey all besmeared Would make the crescent moon afeard That now is sailing brightly Right o'er his leafy donjon-keep! But that she knows him sunken deep, And that his tower is straight and steep, She would not smile so lightly. _Chorus:_ Look down and smile so lightly. She smiles in that small heavenly space, Ringed with the tree-trunk's leafy grace, While upward grins his ghastly face As if some wild-wood Satyr, Some gnomish Ptolemy should dare Up that dark optic tube to stare, As all unveiled she floated there, Poor maiden moon, straight at her! _Chorus:_ The buccaneering Satyr! But there, till some one help him out, Black Bill must stay, without a doubt. "_Help! Help!_" he gives a muffled shout. None but the white owls hear it! _Who? Whoo?_ they cry: Bill answers "ME! _I am stuck fast in this great tree! Bring me a rope, good Timothy! There's honey, lads, we'll share it!_" _Chorus:_ Ay, now he wants to share it. Then, thinking help may come with morn, He sinks, half-famished and out-worn, And scarce his nose exalts its horn Above that sea of glory! But, even as he owns defeat, His belly saith, "A man must eat, And since there is none other meat, Come, lap this mess before 'ee!" _Chorus:_ This glorious mess before 'ee. Then Dian sees a right strange sight As, bidding him a fond good-night, She flings a silvery kiss to light In that deep oak-tree hollow, And finds that gold and crimson nose A moving, munching, ravenous rose That up and down unceasing goes, Save when he stops to swallow! _Chorus:_ He finds it hard to swallow!