The Falcon And The Capon.

[1]      You often hear a sweet seductive call:      If wise, you haste towards it not at all; -      And, if you heed my apologue,      You act like John de Nivelle's dog.[2]      A capon, citizen of Mans,      Was summon'd from a throng      To answer to the village squire,      Before tribunal call'd the fire.      The matter to disguise      The kitchen sheriff wise      Cried, 'Biddy - Biddy - Biddy! - '      But not a moment did he -      This Norman and a half[3] -      The smooth official trust.      'Your bait,' said he, 'is dust,      And I'm too old for chaff.'      Meantime, a falcon, on his perch,      Observed the flight and search.      In man, by instinct or experience,      The capons have so little confidence,      That this was not without much trouble caught,      Though for a splendid supper sought.      To lie, the morrow night,      In brilliant candle-light,      Supinely on a dish      'Midst viands, fowl, and fish,      With all the ease that heart could wish -      This honour, from his master kind,      The fowl would gladly have declined.      Outcried the bird of chase,      As in the weeds he eyed the skulker's face,      'Why, what a stupid, blockhead race! -      Such witless, brainless fools      Might well defy the schools.      For me, I understand      To chase at word      The swiftest bird,      Aloft, o'er sea or land;      At slightest beck,      Returning quick      To perch upon my master's hand.      There, at his window he appears -      He waits thee - hasten - hast no ears?'      'Ah! that I have,' the fowl replied;      'But what from master might betide?      Or cook, with cleaver at his side?      Return you may for such a call,      But let me fly their fatal hall;      And spare your mirth at my expense:      Whate'er I lack, 'tis not the sense      To know that all this sweet-toned breath      Is spent to lure me to my death.      If you had seen upon the spit      As many of the falcons roast      As I have of the capon host,      You would, not thus reproach my wit.'