from wrongs of wicked men we draw

excuses for our own;

such is the universal law.

would you have mercy shown,

let yours be clearly known.

a fowler's mirror served to snare

the little tenants of the air.

a lark there saw her pretty face,

and was approaching to the place.

a hawk, that sailed on high,

like vapour in the sky,

came down, as still as infant's breath,

on her who sang so near her death.

she thus escaped the fowler's steel,

the hawk's malignant claws to feel.

while in his cruel way,

the pirate plucked his prey,

upon himself the net was sprung.

"o fowler," prayed he in the hawkish tongue,

"release me in thy clemency!

i never did a wrong to thee."

the man replied, "'tis true;

and did the lark to you?"