So lives the queer tinker, nor deems it a wrong, When the spirit so moves him, to burst into song.

'Tis a comical song about kettles and pans, And the graces and charms that are Emily Ann's.

'Tis a mad, freakish song, but he sings it with zest, And his little wife vows it of all songs the best.

And he sings quite a lot, as the Summer days pa.s.s, With his back to a tree and his feet in the gra.s.s.

And the little red dog, who is wise as dogs go, He will hark to that song for a minute or so, 'With his head on one side, and a serious air.

Then he makes no remark; but he wanders elsewhere.

And he trots down the garden to gaze now and then At the curious pranks of a certain blue wren: Not a commonplace wren, but a bird marked for fame Thro' a grievance in life and a definite aim.

Now, they never fly far and they never fly high, And they probably couldn't, suppose they should try.

So the common blue wren is content with his lot: He will eat when there's food, and he fasts when there's not.

He flirts and he flutters, his wife by his side, With his share of content and forgiveable pride.

And he keeps to the earth, 'mid the bushes and shrubs, And he dines very well upon corpulent grubs.

But the little blue wren with a grievance in life, He was rude to his neighbours and short with his wife.

For, up in the apple-tree over his nest, There dwelt a fat spider who gave him no rest: A spider so fat, so abnormally stout That he seemed hardly fitted to waddle about.

But his eyes were so sharp, and his legs were so spry, That he could not be caught; and 'twas folly to try.

Said the wren, as his loud lamentations he hurled At the little red dog, "It's a rotten old world!

But my heart would be glad, and my life would be blest If I had that fat spider well under my vest.

Then I'd call back my youth, and be seeking to live, And to taste of the pleasures the world has to give.

But the world is all wrong, and my mind's in a fog!"

"Aw, don't be a Glug!" said the little red dog.

Then, up from the gra.s.s, where he sat by his tree, The voice of the Tinker rose fearless and free.

The little dog listened, his head on one side; Then sought him a spot where a bored dog could hide.

"Kettles and pans! Ho, kettles and pans!

The stars are the G.o.ds' but the earth, it is man's!

Yet down in the shadow dull mortals there are Who climb in the tree-tops to s.n.a.t.c.h at a star: Seeking content and a surcease of care, Finding but emptiness everywhere.

Then make for the mountain, importunate man!

With a kettle to mend ... and your Emily Ann.

As he c.o.c.ked a sad eye o'er a sheltering log, "Oh, a Glug is a Glug!" sighed the little red dog.

THE END