OSTRICH FEATHERS.
["The magnificent ostrich at the Zoological Gardens, presented by the Queen, has recently died from lung-disease."—Daily Paper.]
My eyes are wet with dewy tears,
That will not cease to flow.
Like Mary's little lamb, my grief
Somehow is sure to go
Wherever I do. It all comes
From something that I've read,
The ostrich that I loved so well
Fell ill, and now is dead.
"Magnificent" indeed, it was.
I never ceased to take
A pride in its magnificence
For its own special sake.
But added unto this there was
An extra joy. I mean
That loyalty asks ardour for
A present from the Queen.
Oh! ostrich. I have often thought
Your smile childlike and bland,
And speculated if it's true
That right down in the sand
You really do conceal your head.
But even though that's wrong,
It seems without a lung for life
You could not live for long.
My wife and I delight to hear
Our wee girl's merry laugh,
As she's astride the elephant
Or feeding the giraffe.
But ostrich—regal, lung-gone, dead!
When we are at the Zoo,
My wife's best hat will always serve
To turn my thoughts to you.