Two Mules Were Bearing On Their Backs, One, Oats; The Other, Silver Of The Tax.[1] The Latter Glorying In His Load, March'D Proudly Forward On The Road; And, From The Jingle Of His Bell, 'Twas Plain He Liked His Burden Well. But In A Wild-Wood Glen A Band Of Robber Men Rush'D Forth Upon The Twain. Well With The Silver Pleased, They By The Bridle Seized The Treasure-Mule So Vain. Poor Mule! In Struggling To Repel His Ruthless Foes, He Fell Stabb'D Through; And With A Bitter Sighing, He Cried, 'Is This The Lot They Promised Me? My Humble Friend From Danger Free, While, Weltering In My Gore, I'm Dying?' 'My Friend,' His Fellow-Mule Replied, 'It Is Not Well To Have One'S Work Too High. If Thou Hadst Been A Miller'S Drudge, As I, Thou Wouldst Not Thus Have Died.'