The Poetry Collections of Lewis Carroll. Lewis Carroll

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      The day was wet, the rain fell souse

      Like jars of strawberry jam,⁽²³⁾ 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⁽²⁴⁾ a minute.

      The work is done, the hen has taken

      Possession of her nest and eggs,

      Without a thought of eggs and bacon,⁽²⁵⁾

      (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,⁽²⁶⁾

      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⁽²⁷⁾

      Forced each in turn its contents to express,⁽²⁸⁾

      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⁽²⁹⁾ cried with bursting heart, And voice of agony and pain.

      So one, whose ticket’s marked “Return,”⁽³⁰⁾

      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.⁽³¹⁾

      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 that I have come upon

      The stoutest heart⁽³²⁾ would sicken, That nasty hen has been and gone

      And killed another chicken!”

Lays of Sorrow No. 2

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      Fair stands the ancient⁽³³⁾ Rectory, The Rectory of Croft,

      The sun shines bright upon it,

      The breezes whisper soft.

      From all the house and garden,

      Its inhabitants come forth,

      And muster in the road without,

      And pace in twos and threes about,

      The children of the North.

      Some are waiting in the garden,

      Some are waiting at the door,

      And some are following behind,

      And some have gone before.

      But wherefore all this mustering?

      Wherefore this vast array?

      A gallant feat of horsemanship

      Will be performed to-day.

      To eastward and to westward,

      The crowd divides amain,

      Two youths are leading on the steed,

      Both tugging at the rein;

      And sorely do they labour,

      For the steed⁽³⁴⁾ is very strong, And backward moves its stubborn feet,

      And backward ever doth retreat,

      And drags its guides along.

      And now the knight hath mounted,

      Before the admiring band,

      Hath got the stirrups on his feet,

      The bridle in his hand.

      Yet, oh! beware, sir horseman!

      And tempt thy fate no more,

      For such a steed as thou hast got

      Was never rid before!

      The rabbits bow before thee,

      And cower in the straw;

      The chickens⁽³⁵⁾ are submissive, And own thy will for law;

      Bullfinches and canary

      Thy bidding do obey;

      And e’en the tortoise in its shell

      Doth never say thee nay.

      But thy steed will hear no master,

      Thy steed will bear no stick,

      And woe to those that beat her,

      And woe to those that kick!⁽³⁶⁾

      For though her rider smite her,

      As hard as he can hit,

      And strive to turn her from the yard,

      She stands in silence, pulling hard

      Against the pulling bit.

      And now the road to Dalton

      Hath felt their coming tread,

      The crowd are speeding on before,

      And all have gone ahead.

      Yet