Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/99

 Oh! hapless sage, his ears they stun,
 * And curse him o'er and o'er—

"You bloody-minded dog! cries one, "To slit your windpipe were good fun,— Od blast you for an impious son
 * "Of a presbyterian w—re."

"You'd have him gore the parish-priest,
 * "And run against the altar—

"You fiend!" The sage his warnings ceas'd, And north and south, and west and east, Halloo! they follow the poor beast,
 * Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob and Walter.

Old Lewis, ('twas his evil day)
 * Stood trembling in his shoes;

The Ox was his—what could he say? His legs were stiffened with dismay, The Ox ran o'er him mid the fray,
 * And gave him his death's bruise.