Poem Taken from The Folk-Lore Record #01.

Anonymous, 1878

Original Source

It chanced one day that a crow so black,
Down in a meadow so green,
Had stolen a crust from a pedlar's pack
And carried it off unseen.
Up in an apple-tree flew the crow,
But, ere she the taste of her prize could know,
A fox came by and stood below,
Down in the meadow so green.

Says Reynard, “Jove's eagle sure I see
Up in that tree so high.”
Says the crow to himself, “He surely means me,
And a very fine bird am I.”
“What eyes,” says Reynard, “and what an air!
That plumage, how finely fair!
Never was beauty seen so rare,
Up in a tree so high!”

The crow enchanted, clapp'd her wings,
Alack and well-a-day!
Says Reynard, “I'm sure that angel sings,
Could I but hear the lay!”
The crow look'd round at what he said
(For flattery often turns the head),
She open'd her mouth and dropp'd her bread,
Reynard caught it, and gallop'd away."

← Back to Poems