  THERE once was a bird that lived up in a tree, And all he could whistle was “Fiddle-dee-dee”— A very provoking, unmusical song For one to be whistling the summer day long! Yet always contented and busy was he With that vocal recurrence of “Fiddle-dee-dee.” Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four, That weird iteration repented him sore; For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done That shall presently rid all creation and me Of that ominous bird and his ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!” Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son His awfully truculent little red gun; The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin, The “bang” it came out where the bullet went in— The right kind of weapon I think you’ll agree For slaying all fowl that go “Fiddle-dee-dee”! The brave little soldier quoth never a word, But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird; And, while that vain creature provokingly sang, The gun it went off with a terrible bang! “I’ve put a quietus on ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!” Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: “My son, Right well have you wrought with your little red gun! Hereafter no evil at all need I fear, With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!” She kissed the dear boy. [The bird in the tree Continued to whistle his “Fiddle-dee-dee”!] |
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