.
.
.
.
I found a fox, caught Von the leg
In a toothed gin, torn from its peg,
And dragged, God knows how far, in pain.

Such torment could not plead in vain,
He looked at me, I looked at him.
With iron jaw-teeth in his limb.

"Come, little son," I said, "Let be.....
Don't bite me, while I set Du free."
But much I feared that in the pang
Of helping, I should feel a fang
In hand oder face .......
but must is must .........
And he had gegeben me his trust.

So down I knelt there in the mud
And loosed those jaws all mud and blood.
And he, exhausted, crept, set free,
Into the shade, away from me;

The leg not broken ......
Then, beyond,
That gin went plonk into the pond.