  he Bunnies are a feeble folk Whose weakness is their strength. To shun a gun a Bun will run To almost any length. Now once, when war alarms were rife In the ancestral wood Where the kingdom of the Bunnies For centuries had stood, he Bunnies are a feeble folk Whose weakness is their strength. To shun a gun a Bun will run To almost any length. Now once, when war alarms were rife In the ancestral wood Where the kingdom of the Bunnies For centuries had stood, The king, for fear long peace had made His subjects over-bold, To wake the glorious spirit Of timidity of old, Announced one day he would bestow Princess Bunita’s hand On the Bunny who should prove himself Most timid in the land. Next day a proclamation Was posted in the wood “To the Flower of Timidity, The Pick of Bunnyhood: His Majesty the Bunny king, Commands you to appear At a tournament—at such a date In such and such a year— Where his Majesty will then bestow Princess Bunita’s hand On the Bunny who will prove himself Most timid in the land.” Then every timid Bunny’s heart Swelled with exultant fright At the thought of doughty deeds of fear And prodigies of flight. For the motto of the Bunnies As perhaps you are aware, Is “Only the faint-hearted Are deserving of the fair.” They fell at once to practising, These Bunnies, one and all, Till some could almost die of fright To hear a petal fall. And one enterprising Bunny Got up a special class To teach the art of fainting At your shadow on the grass. At length—at length—at length The moment is at hand! And trembling all from head to foot A hundred Bunnies stand. And a hundred Bunny mothers With anxiety turn gray Lest their offspring dear should lose their fear And linger in the fray. Never before in Bunny lore Was such a stirring sight As when the bugle sounded To begin the glorious flight! A hundred Bunnies, like a flash, All disappeared from sight Like arrows from a hundred bows— None swerved to left or right. Some north, some south, some east, some west,— And none of them, ’t is plain, Till he has gone around the earth Will e’er be seen again. It may be in a hundred weeks, Perchance a hundred years. Whenever it may be, ’t is plain The one who first appears Is the one who ran the fastest; He wins the Princess’ hand, And gains the glorious title of “Most Timid in the Land.” |
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