class="c2">Never parted from his side.

Loudly too prates Atta Troll
Of the mighty meed of praise
Which by practice of his art
He had wrung from humankind.

Young and old, so runs his tale,
Cheered in wonder and in joy,
When in market-squares he danced
To the bag-pipe's pleasant skirl.

And the ladies most of all—
Ah, what gentle connoisseurs!—
Rendered him their mad applause
And full many a tender glance.

Artists' vanity! Alas,
Pensively the dancing-bear
Thinks upon those happy hours
When his talents pleased the crowd.

Seized with rapture self-inspired,
He would prove his words by deeds,
Prove himself no boaster vain
But a master in the art.

Swiftly from the ground he springs,
Stands on hinder paws erect,
Dances then his favourite dance
As of old—the great Gavotte.

Dumb, with open jaws the cubs
Gaze upon their father there
As he makes his wondrous leaps
In the moonshine to and fro.