You know not his ways, when this bird you praise:
You spoke with foolish tongue:
"Virtue," he'll say, and "Virtue" aye,
But he eats our eggs and young.

The things he preaches with his voice
His members never do:
His Virtue is an empty noise,
His righteousness untrue.

At heart a hypocrite, his language charms,
A black snake slinking to his hole is he:
He cozens by his outward coat of arms
The country-folk in their simplicity.

Strike him down with beak and pinion,
Tear him with your claws:
Death to such a dastard minion,
Traitor to our cause.

[270] With these words the leader of the birds himself sprang up and struck the crow in the head with his beak, and the rest struck him with beaks and feet and wings: so he died.

At the end of the lesson, the Master identified the Birth: "At that time the crow was the deceitful Brother, the king of the birds was myself."

Footnotes

^170:1 See Morris in Folk-lore Journal, ii. p. 304.