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Day after day beheld him run His scales a-twinkle in the sun About his business never done; Night’s slender span he Spent in the home his wealth had won— A red-brick cranny.

Thus, as his Sense of Right directed, He lived both honoured and respected, Cherished his children and protected His duteous wife, And nought of diffidence deflected His useful life.

One mid-day, hastening to his Club, He spied beside a water-tub The owner of each plant and shrub A humble Bard Who turned upon the conscious grub A mild regard.

“Eh?” quoth the Wood-louse, “Can it be A Higher Power looks down to see My praiseworthy activity And notes me plying My Daily Task?—Not strange, dear me, But gratifying!”

To whom the Bard: “I still divest My orchard of the Insect Pest, That you are such is manifest, Prepare to die.— And yet, how sweetly does your crest Reflect the sky!

“Go then forgiven, (for what ails Your naughty life this fact avails To pardon) mirror in your scales Celestial blue, Till the sun sets and the light fails The skies and you.”