But a woe that hovers o ’er us brings a keen and
bitter pain
As we weep to see the lobster vanish off the
coast of Maine.
Oh, dear crustacean dainty of the dodge-holes
of the sea,
I tune my lute in minor in a threnody for thee.
You’ve been the nation’s martyr and ’twas wrong
to treat you so,
And you may not think we love you; yet we