A Hundred Fables of La Fontaine. Jean de la Fontaine

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The Wolf turned Shepherd.

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      A wolf, whose gettings from the flocks

       Began to be but few,

       Bethought himself to play the fox

       In character quite new.

       A shepherd's hat and coat he took,

       A cudgel for a crook,

       Nor e'en the pipe forgot:

       And more to seem what he was not,

       Himself upon his hat he wrote,

       "I'm Willie, shepherd of these sheep."

       His person thus complete,

       His crook in upraised feet,

       The impostor Willie stole upon the keep.

       The real Willie, on the grass asleep,

       Slept there, indeed, profoundly,

       His dog and pipe slept, also soundly;

       His drowsy sheep around lay.

       As for the greatest number,

       Much bless'd the hypocrite their slumber,

       And hoped to drive away the flock,

       Could he the shepherd's voice but mock.

       He thought undoubtedly he could.

       He tried: the tone in which he spoke,

       Loud echoing from the wood,

       The plot and slumber broke;

       Sheep, dog, and man awoke.

       The wolf, in sorry plight,

       In hampering coat bedight,

       Could neither run nor fight.

      There's always leakage of deceit Which makes it never safe to cheat. Whoever is a wolf had better Keep clear of hypocritic fetter.

The Swan and the Cook.

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      The pleasures of a poultry yard

       Were by a swan and gosling shared.

       The swan was kept there for his looks,

       The thrifty gosling for the cooks;

       The first the garden's pride, the latter

       A greater favourite on the platter.

       They swam the ditches, side by side,

       And oft in sports aquatic vied,

       Plunging, splashing far and wide,

       With rivalry ne'er satisfied.

       One day the cook, named Thirsty John,

       Sent for the gosling, took the swan

       In haste his throat to cut,

       And put him in the pot.

       The bird's complaint resounded

       In glorious melody;

       Whereat the cook, astounded

       His sad mistake to see,

       Cried, "What! make soup of a musician!

       Please God, I'll never set such dish on.

       No, no; I'll never cut a throat

       That sings so sweet a note."

      'Tis thus, whatever peril may alarm us, Sweet words will never harm us.

The Weasel in the Granary.

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      A weasel through a hole contrived to squeeze,

       (She was recovering from disease,)

       Which led her to a farmer's hoard.

       There lodged, her wasted form she cherish'd;

       Heaven knows the lard and victuals stored

       That by her gnawing perish'd!

       Of which the consequence

       Was sudden corpulence.

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