Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 368, June 1846. Various

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      "Gray scarce had done, when Chanticleer

      The Cock in mourning did appear;

      Two sons accompanied their sire,

      Like him in funeral attire,

      With hoods of crape and torches lighted,

      And doleful lays they both recited.

      Two others follow'd with a bier;

      Mournful and slowly they drew near,

      With heartfelt sighs and deepest groan,

      Their fav'rite sister to bemoan.

      "The Cock in tears the throne approach'd,

      And thus his sad harangue he broach'd:

      'My Liege, have pity on a man,

      The most distressed of his clan,

      Who, with his children here before You,

      Is come, for vengeance to implore You

      On Reynard, who, with fell design,

      Hath done great harm to me and mine.

      When hoary Winter left the plain,

      And Spring smiled on the world again,

      When leaves were budding, daisies springing,

      And tuneful birds in thickets singing,

      The sun at dawn of morning found me

      With my young family around me;

      Ten sons and fourteen daughters fair,

      Breathing with joy the genial air,

      All of one breed, and full of life,

      Brought up by my good prudent wife.

      Protected by a massy wall

      And six bold mastiffs, stout and tall,

      They lived, in spite of Reynard crafty,

      Within a cloister-yard in safety.

      "But lo! our enemy contrived

      Our joy, alas! should be short-lived.

      In hermit's garb the traitor came,

      With letters, written in your name,

      Where strictest orders were express'd,

      To keep peace between bird and beast.

      He said, he scorn'd the joys of sense,

      And led a life of penitence,

      To expiate his former guilt,

      And streams of blood, which he had spilt;

      He vow'd, in future he would eat

      No poultry, nor forbidden meat.

      "All joyful, to my little crew,

      To tell the happy news I flew,

      That Reynard friar's garments wore,

      And was our enemy no more.

      Now for the first time we did venture

      Out of our gate. A dire adventure

      Awaited us; for whilst we stray'd

      And sported on a sunny glade,

      Reynard, conceal'd below a bush,

      Upon us suddenly did rush;

      One of my hopeful sons he slew,

      And of my fairest daughters two. —

      Five only out of twenty-four

      Are left; the rest he did devour.

      My daughter Rake-up, on this bier,

      Slain by the murderer, lies here;

      He bit her neck off yesterday —

      Revenge her death, my liege, I pray.'

      "'Sir Gray,(quoth Noble,) did you hear?

      Fine things of th' hermit-fox appear.

      Was't thus, that with his fasts he meant it?

      Sure as I live he shall repent it!

      "'Good Cock, we've heard your mournful tale,

      And we your daughter's fate bewail;

      Thus, first of all, we'll see the honour

      Of funeral rites bestow'd upon her;

      Next with our Council we shall further

      Consult, how to revenge this murther.'"

      "He ceased; and scarce a sand had run

      When Chanticleer and all his clan

      Appear'd in court: right in the van

      A pullet's corse accompanied,

      'Clept Dem'selle Scratchclaw ere she died;

      By Reynard's bite decapitated —

      This wise the tidings were related.

      Close to the throne the Cock drew nigh:

      Deep anguish dimm'd his upturn'd eye:

      Two little Bantams, right and left,

      Wept bitter tears, as birds bereft.

      Sir Flapwing was of high degree,

      As fine a bantling as you'd see

      'Twixt Amsterdam and Paris, he.

      Sir Strain-neck was the other 'clept,

      And, like the first one, proudly stept.

      Before them each a torch they bear,

      Alike the same; for twins they were.

      Young Cocks yet twain bare up the pall,

      And help'd the wail with voices small.

      Then Chanticleer, before the King

      Commenced, in tones deep harrowing:

      'Ah, gracious Lord and King! give ear

      To my disastrous tale! The tear

      Of pity shed on us who stand

      For justice, suppliants at your hand.

      Sire! thus it chanced; – The frosted beard

      Of Winter scarce had disappear'd;

      Scarce had the thorny brake put by

      Its hosiery of fleece, and I

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