Gossip right and left you're strowing,
Never heeding what you do;
Tho' each idle word you're sowing
Friend and neighbour long may rue.
When we marked you lately loosing
Stone from yonder green hill's side,
You but in your sport were choosing
Swift adown to see it glide.
You look'd pale tho', when in fury,
Like a mad thing just releas'd,
Threatening work for judge and jury,
Wild it whirred o'er man and beast.

Think then, Chatterer! 'mid your doing,
If for others nought you rue,
How the very seed you're strewing
May spring up—ill seed for you.
Yon maim'd traveller, you behold him,
Smitten sore by avalanche;
Wiser heads in vain had told him
On to move, in silence staunch.
Now his own sad cup he's drinking;
Word of his provoked the fall,
Which so lamed; and left him thinking
How that word was cause of all.