"Now there is that hen,"
Said the cross little wren,
"She's fed till she's fat as a drum;
While I strive and sweat
For each bug that I get,
And nobody gives me a crumb.
"I can't see for my life
Why the old farmer's wife
Treats her so much better than me.
Suppose on the ground
I hop carelessly round
For a while and just see what I'll see."
Said this cute little wren,
"I'll make friends with the hen,
And perhaps she will ask me to stay;
And then upon bread
Every day I'd be fed,
And life would be nothing but play."
So down flew the wren,
"Stop to tea," said the hen;
And soon biddy's supper was sent;
But scarce stopping to taste,
The poor bird left in haste
And this was the reason she went:
When the farmer's kind dame
To the poultry-yard came,
She said—and the wren shook with fright—
