Into woods where beasts can talk,
I went out to take a walk,
A rabbit sitting in a bush
Peeped at me, and then cried, “Hush!”
Presently to me it ran,
And its story thus began:—
“You have got a gun, I see,
Perhaps you’ll point it soon at me,
And when I am shot, alack!
Pop me in your little sack.
When upon my fate I think
I grow faint, my spirits sink.”
“Pretty rabbit, do not eat
Gardener’s greens or farmer’s wheat,
If such thieving you begin,
You must pay it with your skin;
Honestly your living get,
And you may be happy yet.”
See the little rabbits,
How they run and sweat;
Some shoot ’em with a gun,
Others catch ’em with a net.
THE HUNTING OF THE WREN
“Will ye go to the wood?” quo’ Fozie Mozie;
“Will ye go to the wood?” quo’ Johnnie Rednosie;
“Will ye go to the wood?” quo’ Foslin ’ene;
“Will ye go to the wood?” quo’ brither and kin.