  The tale of the little Cossack, Who lived by the river Don: He sat on a sea-green hassock, And his grandfather's name was John. His grandfather's name was John, my dears, And he lived upon bottled stout; And when he was found to be not at home, He was frequently found to be out. The tale of the little Cossack,— He sat by the river-side, And wept when he heard the people say That his hair was probably dyed. That his hair was probably dyed, my dears, And his teeth were undoubtedly sham; "If this be true," quoth the little CossÀck, "What a poor little thing I am!" The tale of the little Cossack,— He sat by the river's brim, And he looked at the little fishes, And the fishes looked back at him. The fishes looked back at him, my dears, And winked at him, which was wuss; "If this be true, my friend," they said, "You'd better come down to us." The tale of the little Cossack,— He said, "You are doubtless right, Though drowning is not a becoming death For it makes one look like a fright. If my lovely teeth be crockery, And my hair of Tyrian dye, Then life is a bitter mockery, And no more of it will I!" The tale of the little Cossack,— He drank of the stout so brown; Then put his toes in the water, And the fishes dragged him down. And the people threw in his hassock And likewise his grandfather John; And there was an end of the family, On the banks of the river Don. |
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