The Baron awoke at the usual hour, And the bell toll’d loud in his moss-covered tow’r, Slowly it swung to the gales of the west, Like a voice from the dead when the winds are at rest, And a grinning nightmare withheld his rest, And sat like a pound of cheese on his breast, And devils and imps danced over his head, And Satan grinn’d at the foot of his bed; And the crowing cock his shrill clarion blew, To whit! to whoo! And hark again the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew; As if it was loth from its pillow to creep, But determined at least to snore in its sleep. Again the cock crew, while the glance of his eye, Frightened the clouds as they sail’d thro’ the sky, And the consequence was, that they shook with wonder, And jostling each other created the thunder; The Baron awoke, and he holloed aloud, As one who had seen ‘my ladie’s shroud’: “Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey, Come here, or I’ll lace ye, And tell me directly, or deeply you’ll rue, The cause of this terrible hulloboloo!” The bard came forth in his night-cap he, And he was as skinny as bard mote be, And his locks hung down o’er his shoulders flat, As my grandmother says like the tail of a rat; And away he went with a hem and a haw! To make the old mastiff lie still in her straw―― Without the kennel the mastiff old, Lay snoring fast in ‘moonshine cold.’ He kick’d her once, he kick’d her twice, But the old bitch snapp’d at his fingers thrice. Then Bracy kick’d her again, times four, But the old bitch snapped at his fingers the more. Is he hurt? or doth he squall? I think he’s hurt tho’ he doth not squall, But he curses much, like a naughty man, And swears as often as swear he can; And like a ‘little limber elf,’ Singeth and danceth to himself. He must be hurt, I’m sure he must,―― Or he scarce would dare to kick up such a dust; And certain I am, by his look, ’ifegs, That the mastiff has bitten the calf of his legs, And ’tis a right wonder to raise a laugh!―― For who ever heard of a bard with a calf? But lo! he kicks her again, and her cry, Split the kennel and rent the sky, And there she was, squatted upright on her tail, And oh! she look’d――she look’d like a whale. And spouted forthwith this dolorous strain, Which deserves an encore, again and again. Song of the old Bitch. “There’s a cloud in the sky, And it’s wandering by, And in it I’ll lump, With a hop, skip, and jump, For I’m a warlock of evil, I trow.” (Here the bitch ended with _bow-wow-wow_.)