At last they wrung his neck;
"It—will—be—nothing!" he gasped and died.
(Florian, Fables, Vol. III, No. 19. Translated by the Rev. Wm. Lucas Collins.)
AN old grey Parrot from his cage had flown,
And fixed his quarters in a neighbouring wood;
And there he sat, affecting quite the tone
Of modern connoisseurs, as nearly as he could,
And criticised with supercilious air
Each bird that warbled there.
Even the Nightingale's enchanting song
He found too long:
Besides her cadences were sometimes wrong.
As for the Linnet,
Her style was poor—there was no science in it,
Besides her voice was waning.
The Lark—well possibly, when she was young,
Had she enjoyed the advantage of his training
She might have sung.
In short, no bird could please him: when they chaunted,
He hissed so loud that they all stopped, quite daunted.
Tired out with such affronts, the birds one day
Approached him in a body. "Sir," said they,
"You always hiss and mercilessly flout
These poor attempts of ours;
You have a splendid voice yourself, no doubt;
For our instruction, just for once display
