LAYS OF SORROW

The day was wet, the rain fell souse Like jars of strawberry jam,[5] a Sound was heard in the old hen house, 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.[6] The work is done, the hen has taken Possession of her nest and eggs, Without a thought of eggs and bacon,[7] (Or I am very much mistaken) 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,[8] 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 sage mother with a powerful spell[9] Forced each in turn its contents to “express,”[10] 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 sure 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 is 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 and play. “And must we, chicken, must we part?” Its master[11] cried with bursting heart, And voice of agony and pain. So one whose ticket’s marked “Return,”[12] 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 latest train.[13] 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’s 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 that I have come upon The stoutest heart[14] would sicken, That nasty hen has been and gone And killed another chicken!”