Mark, Where The Beetling Precipice Appears, The Toil Of The Old Fisher, Gray With Years; Mark, As To Drag The Laden Net He Strains, The Labouring Muscle And The Swelling Veins! There, In The Sun, The Clustered Vineyard Bends, And Shines Empurpled, As The Morn Ascends! A Little Boy, With Idly-Happy Mien, To Guard The Grapes Upon The Ground Is Seen; Two Wily Foxes Creeping Round Appear, The Scrip That Holds His Morning Meal Is Near, One Breaks The Bending Vines; With Longing Lip, And Look Askance, One Eyes The Tempting Scrip. He Plats And Plats His Rushy Net All Day, And Makes The Vagrant Grasshopper His Prey; He Plats His Net, Intent With Idle Care, Nor Heeds How Vineyard, Grape, Or Scrip May Fare.