Prediction

Dame Doleful, as old stories say,
Foresaw th' events of every day,
An tho' to Satan no relation,
Dealt largely in prognostication:
Whatever accident befell,
She plainly could the cause foretell;
A hundred reasons she could show,
And finish with — 'I told you so!'

One day her son (a waggish youth)
Put on the serious face of truth,
And feigning sorrow, to her ran —
He thus his wondrous tale began:
'Oh, mother! mother! — What d'ye think?
Letting old Dobbin out to drink,
Poor beast, he neigh'd and shook his mane,
And had such megrims in his brain,
That I did fear — 'Dame stopp'd him short
Before half finish'd his report:
'Ay, ay: thy mother all foresees —
Dobbin hath fallen and broke his knees!
I knew how 'twas: — I told you so.'
In vain her son replied, 'No, no;
Good mother, listen, hear me out' —
As Dobbin hungry smelt about, —
'Boy, I foresee what thou would'st say,
Dobbin hath eat — the rick of hay!'
'O, worse than that! — he paw'd the ground,
And snorted, kick'd, and gallop'd round,
Then wildly staring ran to find
The stone on which our scythes we grind;
And gnaw'd — and gnaw'd — ah, woe betide!
He oped his hungry chops so wide,
And look'd so ravenous, d'ye see,
I was afraid he'd swallow me! —
At last, — 'Ay, ay, I'm not surprised,
'Tis what I all along surmised. —
I knew 'twould be — I heard him groan —
Dobbin hath eat — the Grinding Stone.'