Tom sat at the kitchen window
Watching the folks go by,
But what he was really doing
Was pulling the legs from a fly.
Yes, there he sat in the twilight,
Tormenting the tiny things;
First pulling their legs from their sockets,
And afterwards pulling their wings.
He knew not that his father
Was standing behind his back;
And very much wished to be giving
His cruel young fingers a crack.
But he waited till after dinner,
When Tommy was having a game;
Then he thought he would give him a lesson,
And treat him a little the same.
So catching his son of a sudden,
And giving his elbow a twist;
He pulled his two ears till he shouted,
Then hit him quite hard with his fist.
And did he not roll on the carpet?
And did he not cry out in pain?
But, when he cried out "Oh, you hurt me!"
His father would hit him again.
"Why, Tom, all this is quite jolly,
You don't seem to like it, my boy;
And yet, when you try it on others,
You always are singing with joy;
"It seems very strange," said his father,
And this time his nose had a pull;
But Tommy could stand it no longer;
He bellowed and roared like a bull.
"Hush! hush! while I pull your right leg off,
And scrape off the flesh from your shin;
What you often yourself do to others,
Sure you do not think harm or a sin.
"Now, Tommy, my boy," said his father,
"You'll leave these poor things alone,
If not, I go on with my lesson."
"I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.
But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,
The wounded bird flutters and dies;
Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,
To shoot the poor thing as it flies?
Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, you
May follow your trades, I must own:
So chimneys are swept when they want it--but who
Would sweep them for pleasure alone?
If men would but think of the torture they give
To creatures that cannot complain,
They surely would let the poor animals live,
And not make a sport of their pain.