Two angry men — in heat they sever,
And one goes home by a harvest field:—
“Hope's nought,” quoth he, “and vain endeavor;
I said and say it, I will not yield!
“As for this wrong, no art can mend it,
The bond is shiver'd that held us twain;
Old friends we be, but law must end it,
Whether for loss or whether for gain.
“Yon stream is small — full slow its wending;
But winning is sweet, but right is fine;
And shoal of trout, or willowy bending —
Though Law be costly — I'll prove them mine.
“His strawberry cow slipped loose her tether,
And trod the best of my barley down;
His little lasses at play together
Pluck'd the poppies my boys had grown.
“What then?— Why naught! She lack'd of reason;
And they — my little ones match them well:—
But this — Nay all things have their season,
And‘ tis my season to curb and quell.”