Twopence a day for scaring crows —
Tho’ the rain beats and the wind blows!
The scholars think I've little wit,
But, God! I've got my share of it.
Why does the gorbing land-shark
Leave ploughed rigs for the green park?
Where little's to find, and nothing's to eat
But rabbits’ droppings and pheasants’ meat.
He knows better than come my way
Between the mouth and the tail of day.
For one lick of my hurding wattle
Would lay him out like a showman's bottle!
And the thoughts that rise in my crazed head
When the cloud is low and the wind's dead.
Where you see only clay and stones
I see swords and blanching bones....
But I'll leave you now — it's gone six,
And the smoke is curling over the ricks.
And it's hardly like that the land-shark
Will trouble the furrows after dark.