By Niltag the Healer
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Iridine there was a man,
Of a whom the world might say,
That still a goodly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
Using his own clothes.
And in that town a dump was found,
And many rats there be,
Both large, small, rat, and hound,
And curs at low degree.
This rat and man at first were friends;
But then a fight began,
The rat, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets
The won'dring neighbors ran,
And swore the rat had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad,
To every Citizen's eye;
And while they swore the rat was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rouges they lied,
The man recovered of the bite
Twas the rat that died.