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Lays of Sorrow
The day was wet, the rain fell souse Like jars of strawberry jam, a sound was heard in the old henhouse, A beating of a hammer. Of stalwart form, and visage warm, Two youths were seen within it, Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry At a hundred strokes a minute. The work is done, the hen has taken Possession of her nest and eggs, Without a thought of eggs and bacon, (Or I am very much mistaken happy) She turns over each shell, To be sure that all's well, Looks into the straw To see there's no flaw, Goes once round the house, Half afraid of a mouse, Then sinks calmly to rest On the top of her nest, First doubling up each of her legs. Time rolled away, and so did every shell, "Small by degrees and beautifully less," As the large mother with a powerful spell Forced each in turn its contents to express, But ah! "imperfect is expression," Some poet said, I don't care who, If you want to know you must go elsewhere, One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear, He never attended a Parliament Session, For I'm certain that if he had ever been there, Full quickly would he have changed his ideas, With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers. And as to his name it is pretty clear That it wasn't me and it wasn't you! And so it fell upon a day, (That is, it never rose again) A chick was found upon the hay, Its little life had ebbed away. No longer frolicsome and gay, No longer could it run or play. "And must we, chicken, must we part?" Its master cried with bursting heart, And voice of agony and pain. So one, whose ticket's marked "Return", When to the lonely roadside station He flies in fear and perturbation, Thinks of his home--the hissing urn-- Then runs with flying hat and hair, And, entering, finds to his despair He's missed the very last train. Too long it were to tell of each conjecture Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim, The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture, The timid guess, "perhaps some needle pricked him!" The din of voice, the words both loud and many, The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother, Till all agreed "a shilling to a penny It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!" Scarce was the verdict spoken, When that still calm was broken, A childish form hath burst into the throng; With tears and looks of sadness, That bring no news of gladness, But tell too surely something hath gone wrong! "The sight I have come upon The stoutest heart would sicken, That nasty hen has been and gone And killed another chicken!"
Lewis Carroll's other poems:
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