The old red wolf at my door.
And my hateful yellow dwarf, with his hideous crooked laugh,
Cries "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at my door.

With the still of the frost comes the wolf, wolf, wolf,
The gaunt red wolf at my door.
He's as tall as a Great Dane, with his grizzly russet mane;
And he haunts the silent woods at my door.

The scarlet maple leaves and the sweet ripe nuts,
May strew the forest glade at my door,
But my cringing cunning dwarf, with his slavered kacking laugh,
Cries "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at my door.

The violets may come, the pale wind-flowers blow,
And tremble by the stream at my door;
But my dwarf will never cease, until his last release,
From his "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door.

The long sweet April wind may woo the world from grief,
And tell the old tales at my door;
The rainbirds in the rain may plead their far refrain,
In the glad young year at my door;

And in the quiet sun, the silly partridge brood
In the red pine dust by my door;
Yet my squinting runty dwarf, with his lewd ungodly laugh,
Cries "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at my door.

I'm his master (and his slave, with his "Wolf, wolf, wolf!")