He runs to the rhythm of a dismal tune;
In the gay merry shine of a summer day,
He still is running, away—away.
In cold, in heat, in rain, in snow,
This poor little creature must go—must go;
Perhaps if you're there in time you'll see
This wandering Hare,
This miserable Hare,
Rush over the hill-top, bleak and bare.
Do you suppose he wishes his home to see,