Thus sung a youth of Kensington, a youth of gentle mien,
Whose mother came from Knightsbridge, and whose sire from Turnham Green.
"High diddle diddle," warbled he, "the fiddle and the cat,"
But very much I marvel now what meant the youth by that.
But words contain all mysteries, as difficult to trace
As Cleopatra's needle when it works the fragile lace,
And into many patterns all rapidly it flies—
As the clouds take strange appearances in floating through the skies.
"High diddle diddle," sung the youth with energy intense,
"The cat and fiddle," whispered he—alack, he spoke not sense.