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With her food-basket in her hand!Oh what a croaking, what a squeaking!Alive all the trees and the bushes appear,While to her feet whole troops draw near;The very fish within, the water clearSplash with impatience and their heads protrude;And then she throws around the foodWith such a look!--the very gods delighting(To say nought of beasts). There begins, then, a biting,A picking, a pecking, a sipping,And each o'er the legs of another is tripping,And pushing, and pressing, and flapping,And chasing, and fuming, and snapping,And all for one small piece of bread,To which, though dry, her fair hands give a taste,As though it in ambrosia had been plac'd.

All my peace for aye has fleeted,

1779.*-----BLINDMAN'S BUFF.