Had ever a beast such mad career?

Such a hare-brained race,

Such a long, long chase,

As this silly little Hare recorded here?

This Hare, who wouldn't stop to fight,

Who ran away both day and night

Who put himself delightedly

Among the best of company,

Who acting soon a reckless part,

Then posted off with all his heart;

Forever he's compelled to roam,

He never can enjoy a home.

Hark! do you think that's rustling wind?

Oh no, its nothing of the kind;

It's this poor, homeless, restless Hare

Rushing here, there, and everywhere.

List! do you hear the rain-drops fall

In gentle shower from tree-top tall?

Oh me!

Oh my!

It's poor Hare pattering by.

By the light of the silver moon—moon—moon,

He runs to the rhythm of a dismal tune;

In the gay merry shine of a summer day,

He still is running, away—away.

In cold, in heat, in rain, in snow,

This poor little creature must go—must go;

Perhaps if you're there in time you'll see

This wandering Hare,

This miserable Hare,

Rush over the hill-top, bleak and bare.

Do you suppose he wishes his home to see,

His sisters two, and his brothers three?

Would he like to lie down in his own little bed?

And does he recall what his father said?

And long for his mother to tuck him up tight,

Just as she used to, every night?

Who can say

As alway

He goes on—and on—and on—and on——