Poetry Wednesday--The Lay of the Golden Goose

LONG ago in a poultry yard

One dull November morn,

Beneath a motherly soft wing

A little goose was born.

Who straightway peeped out of the shell

To view the world beyond,

Longing at once to sally forth

And paddle on the pond.

'Oh! be not rash,' her father said,

A mild Socratic bird;

Her mother begged her not to stray

With many a warning word.

But little goosey was perverse,

And eagerly did cry,

I've got a lovely pair of wings,

Of course I ought to fly.'

In vain parental cacklings,

In vain the cold sky's frown,

Ambitious goosey tried to soar,

But always tumbled down.

The farm-yard jeered at her attempts,

The peacocks screamed, 'Oh fie!

You're only a domestic goose,

So don't pretend to fly.'

Great cock-a-doodle from his perch

Crowed daily loud and clear,

'Stay in the puddle, foolish bird,

That is your proper sphere.'

The ducks and hens said, one and all,

In gossip by the pool,

'Our children never play such pranks;

My dear, that fowl's a fool.'

The owls came out and flew about,

Hooting above the rest,

'No useful egg was ever hatched

From trancendental nest.'

Good little goslings at their play

And well-conducted chicks

Were taught to think poor goosey's flights

Were naughty, ill-bred tricks.

They were content to swim and scratch,

And not at all inclinded

For any wild-goose chase in search

Of something undefined.

Hard times she had as one may guess,

That young aspiring bird,

Who still from every fall arose

Saddened but undeterred.

She knew she was not nightingale,

Yet spite of much abuse,

She longed to help and cheer the world,

Although a plain gray goose.

She could not sing, she could not fly,

Nor even walk with grace,

And all the farm-yard had declared

A puddle was her place.

But something stronger than herself

Would cry, 'Go on, go on!'

Remember, though an humble fowl,

You're cousin to a swan.'

So up and down poor goosey went,

A busy, hopeful bird.

Searched many wide unfruitful fields,

And many waters stirred.

At length she came unto a stream

Most fertile of all Niles,

Where tuneful birds might soar and sing

Among the leafy isles.

Here did she build a little nest

Beside the waters still,

Where the parental goose could rest

Unvexed by any bill.

And here she paused to smooth her plumes,

Ruffled by many plagues;

When suddenly arose the cry,

'This goose lays golden eggs.'

At once the farm-yard was agog;

The ducks began to quack;

Prim Guinea fowls relenting called,

'Come back, come back, come back.'

Great chanticleer was pleased to give

A patronizing crow,

And the contemptuous biddies chuckled,

'I wish my chicks did so.'

The peacocks spread their shining tails,

And cried in accents soft,

'We want to know you, gifted one,

Come up and sit aloft.'

Wise owls awoke and gravely said,

With proudly swelling breasts,

'Rare birds have always been evoked

From transcendental nests!'

News-hunting turkeys from afar

Now ran with all thin legs

To gobble facts and fictions of

The goose with golden eggs.

But best of all the little fowls

Still playing on the shore,

Soft downy chicks and goslings gay,

Chirped out, 'Dear Goose, lay more.'

But goosey all these weary years

Had toiled like any ant,

And wearied out she now replied,

'My little dears, I can't.

'When I was starving, half this corn

Had been of vital use,

Now I am surfeited with food

Like any Strasbourg goose.'

So to escape too many friends,

Without uncivil strife,

She ran to the Atlantic pond

And paddled for her life.

Soon up among the grand old Alps

She found two blessed things:

The health she had so nearly lost,

And rest for weary limbs.

But still across the briny deep

Couched in most friendly words,

Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse,

From literary birds.

Whereat the renovated fowl

With grateful thanks profuse,

Took from her wing a quill and wrote

This lay of a Golden Goose.

Louisa May Alcott