Sent first was he
Across the sea,
Advisers kind did flatter me,
When he winged way o'er Yankee soil,
My caterpillar swarms he'd spoil;
And oh, how pleasant that would be!

He would catch a grub, and then
_It_ would never feed again.
My fields he'd skip,
And peck, and nip,
And on the caterpillars feed;
And nought should crawl, or hop, or run
When he his hearty meal had done.
Alas! it was a sell, indeed!

O'er my fields he makes his flight,
In numbers almost infinite;
A plague, alas!
That doth surpass
The swarming caterpillar crew.
What I did I much regret;
_Passer_ is multiplying yet;
Check him I can't. What shall I do?

The British Sparrow won't depart,
His feathered legions break my heart.
Would _he_ away
I would not, nay!
About mere caterpillars fuss.