NE'ER did I taste Castalia's stream;
Nor yet on fork'd Parnassus dream,
That I should feel a poet's fire,
Or blow the lute, or string the lyre.
I leave the Muse's magic ground
To bards profess'd, with laurel crown'd.
The gift I offer to the Nine,
A rustic wreath, to grace their shrine.
What taught the parrot to cry, hail ?
What taught the chattering pie his tale?
Hunger; that sharpener of the wits,
Which gives e'en fools some thinking fits.
Did rooks and pies but know the pleasure
Of heaping high a golden treasure ;
And would their music money bring,
Even rooks and pies would shortly sing.