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Lolling on a bank of thyme. Drunk with Spring I made this rhyme

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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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Pigs

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (2427 reads)
My mother sow with babies ten

Pigs

My mother sow with babies ten
    Is proud as any queen;
Each morning I wheat-straw the pen
    For pigs are truly clean.
My piglets are so cute and sweet
    I grieve to see them grow,
Each nuzzling a tiny teat,
    A plump and rosy row.

And grow they do; with every day
    They seem to gain in girth,
And as I watch them squeal and play
    I rock with ruddy mirth.
Yet as I note their merry jigs
    I shudder some, because
I hate to think of roasted pigs
    With apples in their jaws.

And then one morn old Mother Sow
    Looks up and seems to say:
"It's you must feed my babies now
    With barley meal  and whey.
For though they poke with coral snout,
    My fount of plenty dries . . .
The orchard waits - say, what about
    Our bit of paradise!"

So then the pen I open wide
    And let them all go free.
Oh! How they hustle eager-eyed
    From pear to apple tree!
The orchard grass is juicy green,
    The windfalls star the sod,
And while  Ma Sow is like a queen
    I feel akin to God.

Poor innocents! When all too soon
    Will gleam the butcher's knife,
Let each beneath the harvest moon
    Enjoy enchanted life.
And so the merriest of men,
    beneath the benignant skies
I give my little piggies ten
    Their bit of paradise.


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