Читать книгу The Collected Novels - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 12

The Carrion Crow is a sexton bold.

He raketh the dead from out the mould;

He delveth the ground like a miser old,

Stealthily hiding his store of gold.

Caw! Caw!

The Carrion Crow hath a coat of black,

Silky and sleek like a priest’s to his back;

Like a lawyer he grubbeth — no matter what way —

The fouler the offal, the richer his prey.

Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow! Dig! Dig! in the ground below!

The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw,

With savory pickings he crammeth his craw;

Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim,

It can never hang too long for him! Caw! Caw!

The Carrion Crow smelleth powder, ’tis said,

Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead;

No jester, or mime, hath more marvellous wit,

For, wherever he lighteth, he maketh a hit!

Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow! Dig! Dig! in the ground below!

Shouldering his spade, and whistling to his dog, the sexton quitted the churchyard.

Peter had not been gone many seconds, when a dark figure, muffled in a wide black mantle, emerged from among the tombs surrounding the church; gazed after him for a few seconds, and then, with a menacing gesture, retreated behind the ivied buttresses of the gray old pile.

* * * * *

1. See the celebrated recipe for the Hand of Glory in “Les Secrets du Petit Albert.”

2. The seven planets, so called by Mercurius Trismegistus.