When sparrows build churches on a height,
And wrens carry sacks unto the mill,
And curlews carry timber houses to dight,
And fomalls bear butter to market to sell,
And woodcocks bear woodknives cranes to kill,
And greenfinches to goslings do obedience,
Then put women in trust and confidence.
When crows take salmon in woods and parks,
And be take with swifts and snails,
And camels in the air take swallows and larks,
And mice move mountains by wagging of their tails,
And shipmen take a ride instead of sails,
And when wives to their husbands do no offence,
Then put women in trust and confidence.
When antelopes surmount eagles in flight,
And swans be swifter than hawks of the tower,
And wrens set gos-hawks by force and might,
And muskets make verjuice of crabbes sour,
And ships sail on dry land, silt give flower,
And apes in Westminster give judgment and sentence,
Then put women in trust and confidence.
Anonymous.
HERE IS THE TALE
AFTER RUDYARD KIPLING
Here is the tale—and you must make the most of it!
Here is the rhyme—ah, listen and attend!
Backwards—forwards—read it all and boast of it
If you are anything the wiser at the end!
Now Jack looked up—it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to
fill,
And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his
sister Jill,
And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side;
"Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun—ha' done with your
games!" she cried;
"You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size—finger and face are
black,
You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay—now up and wash you,
Jack!
Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame—
Well you know the weight of her blow—the supperless open shame!
Wash, if you will, on yonder hill—wash, if you will, at the spring,—
Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!"
"You must wash—you must scrub—you must scrape!" growled Jack,
"you must traffic with cans and pails,
Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your
finger-nails!
The morning path you must tread to your bath—you must wash ere
the night descends,
And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soapmakers'
dividends!
But if 'tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing,
Jill,
By the sacred right of our appetite—haste—haste to the top of
the hill!"
They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled
and travelled far,
They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the
bubbling fountains are,
They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up to
the brim;
But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him:
"What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!)
"You boast indeed of your wonderful speed—but what is the
boasting worth?
Now, if you can run as the antelope runs, and if you can turn like
a hare,
Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove your
boasting fair!"