"Cock-a-doodle-doo!

My dame has lost her shoe;

My master's lost his fiddlestick,

And does n't know what to do."

Who's crowing, I wonder, to spread such

a scandal

Of the blithe-tripping dame who hath

dropped off her sandal,

And seemeth all sad and forlornly to

shirk,

Where she used, in good hmnor, to dance

at her work?

PPerhaps honest chanticleer simply may

glory

In faithfully giving both sides of the story;

And scorning the loss of the lady to tell

Without owning the miss of the master as

well.

For how, when the fiddlestick 's gone, can

be played

The music, without which the dancing is

stayed?

When the man 's out of tune, the dear

woman, 't is plain,

Must wait till he graciously strikes up again.

Let him hunt for his bow, then, and rosin it

too,

(If really he'd like to be told what to do;)

And I think, with the fiddling, 't will surely

be found

All else will come right for the merry-go-

round!