But if thou art churlish we'll break down the gate,
And thy pretty wife we'll bear away;
She is small, and of no great weight.
Open, open, then we say.
Not old men, but boys are we,
And the swallow says, "Open to me."—J. A. St. John.
The same.
The swallow, the swallow has burst on the sight,
He brings us gay seasons of vernal delight;
His back it is sable, his belly is white.
Can your pantry nought spare,
That his palate may please,
A fig—or a pear—
Or a slice of rich cheese?
Mark, he bars all delay:
At a word, my friend, say,
Is it yes,—is it nay?
Do we go?—do we stay?—
One gift and we're gone:
Refuse, and anon
On your gate and your door
All our fury we pour.
Or our strength shall be tried
On your sweet little bride:
From her seat we will tear her;
From her home we will bear her:
She is light, and will ask
But small hands to the task.—
Let your bounty then lift
A small aid to our mirth;
And whatever the gift,
Let its size speak its worth.
The swallow, the swallow
Upon you doth wait:
An almsman and suppliant
He stands at your gate:
Set open, set open
Your gate and your door;
Neither giants nor greybeards,—
We your bounty implore.—Mitchell.
