Gay.    

	Even the blackest of them all, the crow,
	Renders good service as your man-at-arms,
	Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail,
	And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

Longfellow.    

	If the old shower-foretelling crow
	Croak not her boding note in vain,
	To-morrow’s eastern storm shall strow
	The woods with leaves, with weeds the main.

Francis Horace.