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While thus he spake two farmers sauntered pastAnd turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,—“I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen,The little beast has wandered from his pen!”Jocko is captured by the portly pair,They lead him, passive, to the Market Square;Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,—“Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!”The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore,Into a vacant pen and slam the door:—Through the grim wires the searching breezes moanAnd Jocko sits there shivering alone.

While thus he spake two farmers sauntered pastAnd turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,—“I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen,The little beast has wandered from his pen!”Jocko is captured by the portly pair,They lead him, passive, to the Market Square;Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,—“Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!”The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore,Into a vacant pen and slam the door:—Through the grim wires the searching breezes moanAnd Jocko sits there shivering alone.

While thus he spake two farmers sauntered pastAnd turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,—“I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen,The little beast has wandered from his pen!”Jocko is captured by the portly pair,They lead him, passive, to the Market Square;Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,—“Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!”The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore,Into a vacant pen and slam the door:—Through the grim wires the searching breezes moanAnd Jocko sits there shivering alone.

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