Tit For Tat

Have you been catching of fish, Tom Noddy?
    Have you snared a weeping hare?
Have you whistled, 'No Nunny,'and gunned a poor bunny,
    Or a blinded bird of the air?

Have you trod like a murderer through the green woods,
    Through the dewy deep dingles and glooms,
While every small creature screamed shrill to Dame Nature,
    'He comes - and he comes!'?

Wonder I very much do, Tom Noddy,
    If ever, when you are a-roam,
An Ogre from space will stoop a lean face
    And lug you home:

Lug you home over his fence, Tom Noddy,
    Of thorn-sticks nine yards high,
With your bent knees strung round his old iron gun
    And your head dan-dangling by:

And hang you up stiff on a hook, Tom Noddy,
    From a stone-cold pantry shelf,
Whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare,
    Till you're cooked yourself!