Tit For Tat

Have you been catching of fish, Tom Noddy?         Have you snared a weeping hare?     Have you whistled, 'No Nunny,'and gunned a poor bunny,         Or a blinded bird of the air?     Have you trod like a murderer through the green woods,         Through the dewy deep dingles and glooms,     While every small creature screamed shrill to Dame Nature,         'He comes - and he comes!'?     Wonder I very much do, Tom Noddy,         If ever, when you are a-roam,     An Ogre from space will stoop a lean face         And lug you home:     Lug you home over his fence, Tom Noddy,         Of thorn-sticks nine yards high,     With your bent knees strung round his old iron gun         And your head dan-dangling by:     And hang you up stiff on a hook, Tom Noddy,         From a stone-cold pantry shelf,     Whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare,         Till you're cooked yourself!