Classic Poem

Dame Doleful, as old stories say,
Foresaw th' events of every day,
And tho' to Satan no relation,
Dealt largely in prognostication:
Whatever accident befel,
She plainly could the cause foretell;
A hundred reasons she could show,
And finish with — " I told you so! "

One day her son (a waggish youth)
Put on the serious face of truth,
And feigning sorrow, to her ran —
He thus his wond'rous tale began:
" Oh mother! — mother! — What d'ye think?
" Letting old Dobbin out to drink,
" Poor beast, he neigh'd, and shook his mane,
" And had such megrims in his brain,
" That I did fear." — — Dame stopp'd him short
Before half finished his report:
" Ay, ay; thy mother all forsees —
" Dobbin hath fall'n and broke his knees
" I knew how 'twas; — I told you so. "
In vain her son replied, " No, no;
" Good mother, listen, hear me out —
" As Dobbin, hungry, smelt about," — —
" Boy, I foresee what thou would'st say,
" Dobbin hath eat — the rick of hay! "
" O worse than that! — He paw'd the ground,
" And snorted, kick'd, and gallop'd round,
" Then, wildly staring, ran to find
" The stone on which our scythes we grind;
" And knaw'd — and knaw'd — ah, woe betide!
" He ope'd his hungry chops so wide,
" And look'd so ravenous, d'ye see,
" I was afraid he'd swallow me ! —
" At last" — — " Ay, ay, I'm not surprised,
" 'Tis what I all along surmised, —
" I knew 'twould be — I heard him groan —
" Dobbin hath eat — the GRINDING-STONE ! "