I SING a song of sixpence, and of rye
A pocketful—recalling, sad to state,
The niggardly emoluments which I
Receive as Laureate!
Also I sing of blackbirds—in the mart
At four-a-penny. Thus, in other words,
The sixpence which I mentioned at the start
Purchased two dozen birds.
So four-and-twenty birds were deftly hid—
Or shall we say, were skilfully concealed?—
Within the pie-dish. When they raised the lid,
What melody forth pealed!
Now I like four-and-twenty blackbirds sing,
With all their sweetness, all their rapture keen;
And isn’t this a pretty little thing
To set before the Queen?
The money-counting monarch—sordid man!—
His wife, who robbed the little busy bees,
I disregard. In fact a poet can
But pity folks like these.
The maid was in the garden. Happy maid!
Her choice entitles her to rank above
Master and Mistress. Gladly she surveyed
The Garden That I Love!
—Where grow my daffodils, anemones,
Tulips, auriculas, chrysanthemums,
Cabbages, asparagus, sweet peas,
With apples, pears, and plums—
(That’s a parenthesis. The very name
Of garden really carries one astray!)
But suddenly a feathered ruffian came,
And stole her nose away.
Eight stanzas finished! So my Court costume
I lay aside: the Laureate, I suppose,
Has done his part; the man may now resume
His journalistic prose.
_Anthony C. Deane._