On the ground lived a Hen,In a tree lived a Wren,Who picked up her food here and there;While Biddy had wheatAnd all nice things to eatSaid the Wren, "I declare, 'tisn't fair!"It is really too bad!"She exclaimed—she was mad—"To go out when it's raining this way!And to earn what you eat,Doesn't make your food sweet,In spite of what some folks may say."Now, there is that Hen,"Said this cross little Wren,"She's fed till she's fat as a drum;While I strive and sweatFor each bug that I get,And nobody gives me a crumb."I can't see for my lifeWhy the old farmer's wife.Treats her so much better than me.Suppose on the groundI hop carelessly roundFor awhile, and just see what I'll see."Said this cute little Wren,"I'll make friends with the Hen,And perhaps she will ask me to stay;And then upon breadEvery day I'll be fed,And life will be nothing but play."So down flew the Wren,"Stop to tea," said the Hen;And soon Biddy's supper was sent;But scarce stopping to taste,The poor bird left in haste,And this was the reason she went:When the farmer's kind dameTo the poultry yard came,She said—and the Wren shook with fright—"Biddy's so fat she'll doFor a pie or a stew,And I guess I shall kill her to-night."—Phœbe Cary.
On the ground lived a Hen,In a tree lived a Wren,Who picked up her food here and there;While Biddy had wheatAnd all nice things to eatSaid the Wren, "I declare, 'tisn't fair!"It is really too bad!"She exclaimed—she was mad—"To go out when it's raining this way!And to earn what you eat,Doesn't make your food sweet,In spite of what some folks may say."Now, there is that Hen,"Said this cross little Wren,"She's fed till she's fat as a drum;While I strive and sweatFor each bug that I get,And nobody gives me a crumb."I can't see for my lifeWhy the old farmer's wife.Treats her so much better than me.Suppose on the groundI hop carelessly roundFor awhile, and just see what I'll see."Said this cute little Wren,"I'll make friends with the Hen,And perhaps she will ask me to stay;And then upon breadEvery day I'll be fed,And life will be nothing but play."So down flew the Wren,"Stop to tea," said the Hen;And soon Biddy's supper was sent;But scarce stopping to taste,The poor bird left in haste,And this was the reason she went:When the farmer's kind dameTo the poultry yard came,She said—and the Wren shook with fright—"Biddy's so fat she'll doFor a pie or a stew,And I guess I shall kill her to-night."—Phœbe Cary.
On the ground lived a Hen,In a tree lived a Wren,Who picked up her food here and there;While Biddy had wheatAnd all nice things to eatSaid the Wren, "I declare, 'tisn't fair!
On the ground lived a Hen,
In a tree lived a Wren,
Who picked up her food here and there;
While Biddy had wheat
And all nice things to eat
Said the Wren, "I declare, 'tisn't fair!
"It is really too bad!"She exclaimed—she was mad—"To go out when it's raining this way!And to earn what you eat,Doesn't make your food sweet,In spite of what some folks may say.
"It is really too bad!"
She exclaimed—she was mad—
"To go out when it's raining this way!
And to earn what you eat,
Doesn't make your food sweet,
In spite of what some folks may say.
"Now, there is that Hen,"Said this cross little Wren,"She's fed till she's fat as a drum;While I strive and sweatFor each bug that I get,And nobody gives me a crumb.
"Now, there is that Hen,"
Said this cross little Wren,
"She's fed till she's fat as a drum;
While I strive and sweat
For each bug that I get,
And nobody gives me a crumb.
"I can't see for my lifeWhy the old farmer's wife.Treats her so much better than me.Suppose on the groundI hop carelessly roundFor awhile, and just see what I'll see."
"I can't see for my life
Why the old farmer's wife.
Treats her so much better than me.
Suppose on the ground
I hop carelessly round
For awhile, and just see what I'll see."
Said this cute little Wren,"I'll make friends with the Hen,And perhaps she will ask me to stay;And then upon breadEvery day I'll be fed,And life will be nothing but play."
Said this cute little Wren,
"I'll make friends with the Hen,
And perhaps she will ask me to stay;
And then upon bread
Every day I'll be fed,
And life will be nothing but play."
So down flew the Wren,"Stop to tea," said the Hen;And soon Biddy's supper was sent;But scarce stopping to taste,The poor bird left in haste,And this was the reason she went:
So down flew the Wren,
"Stop to tea," said the Hen;
And soon Biddy's supper was sent;
But scarce stopping to taste,
The poor bird left in haste,
And this was the reason she went:
When the farmer's kind dameTo the poultry yard came,She said—and the Wren shook with fright—"Biddy's so fat she'll doFor a pie or a stew,And I guess I shall kill her to-night."—Phœbe Cary.
When the farmer's kind dame
To the poultry yard came,
She said—and the Wren shook with fright—
"Biddy's so fat she'll do
For a pie or a stew,
And I guess I shall kill her to-night."
—Phœbe Cary.