The tailor then cast up a stone to strike the foeman dead ;
But midway, lo! to earth it fell, and cracked his old wife’s head.
‘Heigho!’ cries the Carrion Crow,
‘If I must speak, your aims are weak; pray who has felt that blow?’
The tailor now beside himself, his anger mounting higher,
Has brought some straw, some sticks, a torch, to set the tree on fire.

SN | em
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‘Heigho!’ said the Carrion Crow,
‘As now you're getting personal, I. deem it time to go.’
The tree was dry, the wind was high, the flames with great despatch
Climb up the oak midst clouds of smoke, and reach the cottage thatch.
‘Heigho!’ cries the Carrion Crow,
‘Excuse me, Mr. Tailor, if over you I crow!’