| Being out of heart with government |
| I took a broken root to fling |
| Where the proud, wayward squirrel went, |
| Taking delight that he could spring; |
| And he, with that low whinnying sound |
| That is like laughter, sprang again |
| And so to the other tree at a bound. |
| Nor the tame will, nor timid brain, |
| Nor heavy knitting of the brow |
| Bred that fierce tooth and cleanly limb |
| And threw him up to laugh on the bough; |
| No government appointed him. |