The Satyr And The Traveller.

[1]      Within a savage forest grot      A satyr and his chips      Were taking down their porridge hot;      Their cups were at their lips.      You might have seen in mossy den,      Himself, his wife, and brood;      They had not tailor-clothes, like men,      But appetites as good.      In came a traveller, benighted,      All hungry, cold, and wet,      Who heard himself to eat invited      With nothing like regret.      He did not give his host the pain      His asking to repeat;      But first he blew with might and main      To give his fingers heat.      Then in his steaming porridge dish      He delicately blew.      The wondering satyr said, 'I wish      The use of both I knew.'      'Why, first, my blowing warms my hand,      And then it cools my porridge.'      'Ah!' said his host, 'then understand      I cannot give you storage.      'To sleep beneath one roof with you,      I may not be so bold.      Far be from me that mouth untrue      Which blows both hot and cold.'