The Poetry Corner

The Falcon And The Capon.

By Jean de La Fontaine

[1] You often hear a sweet seductive call: If wise, you haste towards it not at all; - And, if you heed my apologue, You act like John de Nivelle's dog.[2] A capon, citizen of Mans, Was summon'd from a throng To answer to the village squire, Before tribunal call'd the fire. The matter to disguise The kitchen sheriff wise Cried, 'Biddy - Biddy - Biddy! - ' But not a moment did he - This Norman and a half[3] - The smooth official trust. 'Your bait,' said he, 'is dust, And I'm too old for chaff.' Meantime, a falcon, on his perch, Observed the flight and search. In man, by instinct or experience, The capons have so little confidence, That this was not without much trouble caught, Though for a splendid supper sought. To lie, the morrow night, In brilliant candle-light, Supinely on a dish 'Midst viands, fowl, and fish, With all the ease that heart could wish - This honour, from his master kind, The fowl would gladly have declined. Outcried the bird of chase, As in the weeds he eyed the skulker's face, 'Why, what a stupid, blockhead race! - Such witless, brainless fools Might well defy the schools. For me, I understand To chase at word The swiftest bird, Aloft, o'er sea or land; At slightest beck, Returning quick To perch upon my master's hand. There, at his window he appears - He waits thee - hasten - hast no ears?' 'Ah! that I have,' the fowl replied; 'But what from master might betide? Or cook, with cleaver at his side? Return you may for such a call, But let me fly their fatal hall; And spare your mirth at my expense: Whate'er I lack, 'tis not the sense To know that all this sweet-toned breath Is spent to lure me to my death. If you had seen upon the spit As many of the falcons roast As I have of the capon host, You would, not thus reproach my wit.'