So the Mouse had Miss Lion for bride; Very great was his joy and his pride: But it chanced that she put On her husband her foot, And the weight was too much, so he died.
He buried his Gold in a hole. One saw, and the treasure he stole. Said another, "What matter? Don't raise such a clatter, You can still go & sit by the hole."
A poor thing the Mouse was, and yet, When the Lion got caught in a net, All his strength was no use 'Twas the poor little Mouse Who nibbled him out of the net.
The north wind doth blow And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then--poor thing? He'll sit in a barn To keep himself warm, And hide his head under his wing--poor thing!
Giant Oak, in his strength & his scorn Of the winds, by the roots was uptorn: But slim Reeds at his side, The fierce gale did outride, Since, by bending the burden was borne.
One misty, moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather, There I met an old man clothed all in leather, clothed all in leather, With cap under his chin, How do you do, how do you do, how do you do, again, again.
There was an old woman and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink; Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet, Yet this plaguey old woman could never be quiet.
There was an old woman tossed up in a blanket, Seventeen times as high as the moon; Where she was going I could not but ask it, For in her hand she carried a broom....
The Peacock considered it wrong That he had not the nightingale's song; So to Juno he went, She replied, "Be content With thy having, & hold thy fool's tongue!"
1. My daddy is dead, but I can't tell you how; He left me six horses to follow the plough; With my whim wham waddle ho! Strim stram straddle ho! Bubble ho! pretty boy, over the brow.
A Snake, in a fix, tried a File For a dinner. "'Tis not worth your while," Said the steel, "don't mistake; I'm accustomed to take, To give's not the way of a File."
Safe enough lay the poor hunted Deer In the ox-stall, with nothing to fear From the careless-eyed men: Till the Master came; then There was no hiding-place for the Deer. ...
Some time ago, ere we were born or thought of, There lived a little girl, who liked to roam Through lonely woods and lanes, unknown, unsought of Such folk who like to stop and stay at home....
The Trees ask of Man what he lacks; "One bit, just to handle my axe?" All he asks--well and good: But he cuts down the wood, So well does he handle his axe!
A Trumpeter, prisoner made, Hoped his life would be spared when he said He'd no part in the fight, But they answered him--"Right, But what of the music you made?" ...