Little Birds are dining |
Warily and well, |
Hid in mossy cell: |
Hid, I say, by waiters |
Gorgeous in their gaiters - |
I've a Tale to tell. |
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Little Birds are feeding |
Justices with jam, |
Rich in frizzled ham: |
Rich, I say, in oysters |
Haunting shady cloisters - |
That is what I am. |
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Little Birds are teaching |
Tigresses to smile, |
Innocent of guile: |
Smile, I say, not smirkle - |
Mouth a semicircle, |
That's the proper style. |
|
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All among the pins, |
Where the loser wins: |
Where, I say, he sneezes |
When and how he pleases - |
So the Tale begins. |
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There was a Pig that sat alone |
Beside a ruined Pump: |
By day and night he made his moan - |
It would have stirred a heart of stone |
To see him wring his hoofs and groan, |
Because he could not jump. |
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A certain Camel heard him shout - |
A Camel with a hump. |
"Oh, is it Grief, or is it Gout? |
What is this bellowing about?" |
That Pig replied, with quivering snout, |
"Because I cannot jump!" |
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That Camel scanned him, dreamy-eyed. |
"Methinks you are too plump. |
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That wobbled so from side to side - |
Who could, however much he tried, |
Do such a thing as jump! |
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Yet mark those trees, two miles away, |
All clustered in a clump: |
If you could trot there twice a day, |
Nor ever pause for rest or play, |
In the far future - Who can say? - |
You may be fit to jump". |
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That Camel passed, and left him there, |
Beside the ruined Pump. |
Oh, horrid was that Pig's despair! |
His shrieks of anguish filled the air. |
He wrung his hoofs, he rent his hair, |
Because he could not jump. |
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There was a Frog that wandered by - |
A sleek and shining lump: |
Inspected him with fishy eye, |
And said: "O Pig, what makes you cry?" |
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"Because I cannot jump!" |
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That Frog he grinned a grin of glee, |
And hit his chest a thump. |
"O Pig, - he said, - be ruled by me, |
And you shall see what you shall see. |
This minute, for a trifling fee, |
I'll teach you how to jump! |
|
You may be faint from many a fall, |
And bruised by many a bump: |
But, if you persevere through all, |
And practise first on something small, |
Concluding with a ten-foot wall, |
You'll find that you can jump!" |
|
That Pig looked up with joyful start: |
"Oh Frog, you are a trump! |
Your words have healed my inward smart - |
Come, name your fee and do your part: |
Bring comfort to a broken heart, |
By teaching me to jump!" |
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"My fee shall be a mutton-chop, |
My goal this ruined Pump. |
Observe with what an airy flop |
I plant myself upon the top! |
Now bend your knees and take a hop, |
For that's the way to jump!" |
|
Uprose that Pig, and rushed, full whack, |
Against the ruined Pump: |
Rolled over like an empty sack, |
And settled down upon his back, |
While all his bones at once went "Crack!" |
It was a fatal jump. |
|
Little Birds are writing |
Interesting books, |
To be read by cooks: |
Read, I say, not roasted - |
Letterpress, when toasted, |
Loses its good looks. |
|
Little Birds are playing |
Bagpipes on the shore, |
|
"Thanks! - they cry. - Tis thrilling! |
Take, oh take this shilling! |
Let us have no more!" |
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Little Birds are bathing |
Crocodiles in cream, |
Like a happy dream: |
Like, but not so lasting - |
Crocodiles, when fasting, |
Are not all they seem! |
|
That Camel passed, as Day grew dim |
Around the ruined Pump. |
"O broken heart! O broken limb! |
It needs, - that Camel said to him, - |
Something more fairy-like and slim, |
To execute a jump!" |
|
That Pig lay still as any stone, |
And could not stir a stump: |
Nor ever, if the truth were known, |
Was he again observed to moan, |
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Because he could not jump. |
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That Frog made no remark, for he |
Was dismal as a dump: |
He knew the consequence must be |
That he would never get his fee - |
And still he sits, in miserie, |
Upon that ruined Pump! |
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Little Birds are choking |
Baronets with bun, |
Taught to fire a gun: |
Taught, I say, to splinter |
Salmon in the winter- |
Merely for the fun. |
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Little Birds are hiding |
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Blessed by happy stags: |
Blessed, I say, though beaten - |
Since our friends are eaten |
When the memory flags. |
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Gratitude and gold, |
Pale with sudden cold: |
Pale, I say, and wrinkled - |
When the bells have tinkled, |
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