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

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      About me, strutting, crowing, picking,

      In comeliness my little ones:

      I counted up ten stalwart sons;

      Of daughters, too, a wondrous store, —

      Plump Ortolans, and full a score.

      My dame, the thoughtful prudent Hen,

      Had train'd their youth beneath her ken

      All virtues cardinal to practise,

      Best learned from mothers, as the fact is.

      Our house was in the convent yard,

      High wall'd around: six dogs stood guard; —

      All kept for our peculiar care,

      By night and day to shield us there.

      Now, gracious Liege! mark what I tell.

      Reynard, (the knave!) with cockle-shell

      And pilgrim's staff, wellworn, appears,

      Bearing a packet: as he nears,

      I note your royal seal, and read

      Announcement of the truce decreed:

      No more, he said, he played the royster,

      But sought repentance in a cloister:

      Observed the rule o' th' strictest sect,

      His sins to purge with sure effect;

      Whereby myself might to the end

      My life secure and fearless spend.

      Said he, 'flesh diet I have sworn

      Never to touch from night to morn.' —

      Unto my children all, I stated

      The royal message, then related

      How Reynard had assumed the cowl,

      And left off hankering after fowl.

      Myself I led them far and wide,

      When lo! the Fox's guile defied

      My anxious cares: in that same hour

      He'd mark'd a victim for his power!

      Perdu behind a bush he lay,

      And took, before mine eyes, his prey!

      The best of all my brood he seized,

      And ate her up. The morsel pleased

      His scoundrel maw – 'twas dainty meat —

      And soon he sought another treat. —

      Full four-and twenty hopeful chicks

      As e'er peck'd corn from out fresh ricks

      Were mine, – and now, as I'm alive,

      The villain's kill'd them all but five!

      Pity, O King! my sorrowing tale:

      Grant succour in this hour of wail!

      But yesterday, the huntsman's cry

      Surprised him in the act to fly

      With Scratchclaw's body, which you see

      Kill'd by his murd'rous tooth – ah me!

      'Tis here as witness of my woe —

      Oh that my hardhap to your heart may go!'

      Enraged, the King: 'Sir Badger, ho!

      The monk your uncle (troth!) doth know

      To keep his fast, – the holy man! —

      Match me the like of this who can?

      What need of further question here?

      Draw nigh and listen, Chanticleer!

      Ourself your daughter dead will see

      Entomb'd with all solemnity

      Of dirge and mass, in her last slumber,

      And vigils also without number.

      This done, from these our lieges true

      We'll crave their help and counsel too,

      Touching the murder and the vengeance due.'

      To Bruin then the King thus spake:

      'Bruin! look well you undertake

      This journey with dispatch – 'Tis I,

      Your Sov'reign, calls upon you – fly!

      Be wise and wary: Reynard's guile

      Is practised in each crafty wile.'"

      Neither of the translators is here very good, and Naylor is perhaps as near hitting the nail on the point (to use the phrase of a friend of ours of the Fogie Club) as his competitor. He still gives us, however, a great many silly superfluities, though some of them we have ventured to cut out.

      Finally, as our readers may begin to think they have enough of this, we shall close our comparative view by some quotations from the Wager of Battle, by which the Wolf and the Fox ultimately terminate their disputes.