In Memory’s mystical hazes
I see a vast Gander and grey,
I see the small boy that he chases
At the head of a hissing array:
How I wept when they brought me to bay,
How I pleaded in vain for a truce!
Too frightened too shoo them away,
I could never say Boh to a Goose!
* * * * *
Punch, October 22, 1887.