They really are a pretty sight,
My little pigs, so small and white!
Their tails have such a curious kink;
Their ears are lined with palest pink:
They frisk about as brisk and gay
As school-boys on a holiday.
I watch them scamper to and fro:
How clean they look! how fast they grow!
But they are only pigs, dear me!
And that is all they'll ever be.
Beside their pen, above its wall,
A garden-rose grows fresh and tall,
Its blossoms, wet with morning dew,
The sweetest flowers that ever grew.
With every passing wind that blows
Comes scattered down a milk-white rose,
In leaves like scented flakes of snow,
Upon the little pigs below.
They only grunt, "Ur, Ur," and say,
"We want more milk and meal to-day.
The flowers may bloom, the flowers may fall,
'Tis no concern of ours at all."
For they are only pigs, dear me!
And that is all they'll ever be.
Upon the rose's highest bough
There often comes a robin now,
And sings a song so sweet and clear,
It makes one happy just to hear;
For never yet, on summer day,
Was sung a more delightful lay.
What care the little pigs below?
The bird may come, the bird may go;
For while he sings, "Quee, quee!" they squeal,
"We want some milk, we want some meal!"
For they are only pigs, dear me!
And that is all they'll ever be.