Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way. Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels Or Durham feed; With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils From nether side of Tweed, Or Firth of Forth; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,-- With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,-- When,--whether from a fly's malicious comment Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank; Or whether Only in some enthusiastic moment,-- However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble; And after a pas seul,--or, if you will, a Horn-pipe before the basket-maker's villa, Leapt o'er the tiny pale,-- Backed his beefsteaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail Right o'er the page, Wherein the sage Just then was spelling some romantic fable. The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, Could not peruse,--who could?--two tales at once; And being huffed At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft; Banged-to the door, But most unluckily enclosed a morsel Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel:-- The monster gave a roar, And bolting off with speed increased by pain, The little house became a coach once more, And, like Macheath, "took to the road" again! Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, The ancient woman stooping with her crupper Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper; Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And, quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach;--what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale; Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, Nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite Gone out of sight! At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, Weary of sitting on her russet clothing, And looking round Where rest was to be found, There was no house--no villa there--no nothing! No house! The change was quite amazing; It made her senses stagger for a minute, The riddle's explication seemed to harden; But soon her superannuated _nous_ Explain'd the horrid mystery;--and raising Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, On which she meant to sup,-- "Well! this _is_ Fairy work! I'll bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up, And set me down in some one else's garden!" CRANIOLOGY.