The (almost really) Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

The day was wet, the rain fell souse
Like jars of stawberry jam,¹ a
Sound was heard in the old henhouse,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it,
Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry
At a hundred strokes² a minute.

The work is done, the hen has taken
Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon,³
(Or I am very much mistaken:)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all’s well,
Looks into the straw
To see there’s no flaw,
Goes once round the house,⁴
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.

Time rolled away, and so did each shell,
“Small by degree and beautifully less,”
As the sage mother weth a powerful spell⁵
Forced each in turn it’s contents to “express,”⁶
But ah! “imperfect is expression,”
Some poet said, I don’t care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you’re willing to hear,
He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I’m certain that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name it is pretty clear
That it wasn’t me and it wasn’t you!

And so it fell upon a day,
(That is, it never rose again.)
A chick was found upon the hay,
It’s little life had ebbed away.
No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run or play.
“And must we, chicken, must we part?”
It’s master⁷ cried with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain
So one, whose ticket’s marked “Return⁸”.
When to the lonely roadside station
He flies in fear and perturbation.
Thinks of his home—the hissing urn—
Then runs with flying hat and hair,
And, entering, finds to his despair
He’s missed the very latest train!⁹

Too long it were to tell of each conjecture,
Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim,
The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,
The timid guess, “perhaps some needle pricked him!”
The din of voice, the words both loud and many,
The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,
Till all agreed “a shilling to a penny
“It killed it self, and we acquit the mother!”
Scarce was the verdict spoken,
When that still calm was broken,
A childish from hath burst into the throny,
With tears and looks of sadness,
That bring no news of gladness,
But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!
“The sight that I have come upon
“The stoutest¹⁰ heart would sicken,
“That nasty hen has been and gone
“And, killed another chicken!”