Edward Lear (1812 – 1888)
English artist, illustrator and writer known for his nonsensical poetry and his limericks, a form which he popularised.
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Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
We think no Birds so happy as we!
Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
We think so then, and we thought so still!
It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pebbles are happier without their toes.
They went to sea in a sieve, they did;
In a sieve they went to sea;
In spite of all their friends could say.
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!—
Two Owls and a Hen,
Four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard!"
There he heard a Lady talking,
To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,—
'Tis the lady Jingly Jones!
On that little heap of stones
Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
"Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,—
One old jug without a handle,—
These were all his worldly goods.
Who, or why, or which, or what,
Is the Akond of Swat?
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said, "Some day you may lose them all;"—
He replied, — "Fish fiddle de-dee!"
On a little heap of Barley
Died my aged uncle Arly,
And they buried him one night;—
Close beside the leafy thicket;—
There, his hat and Railway-Ticket;—
There, his ever-faithful Cricket;—
(But his shoes were far too tight.)
On the top of the Crumpetty Tree
The Quangle Wangle sat,
But his face you could not see,
On account of his Beaver Hat.
His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
They sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the bong-tree grows.
Calico Pie,
The little Birds fly
Down to the calico tree,
Their wings were blue,
And they sang "Tilly-loo!"
Till away they flew,—
And they never came back to me!
When awful darkness and silence reign
Over the great Gromboolian plain,
Through the long, long wintry nights.
When the angry breakers roar
As they beat on the rocky shore;—
When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!
Who has written such volumes of stuff!
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few think him pleasant enough.
Calico Jam,
The little Fish swam,
Over the syllabub sea,
He took off his hat,
To the Sole and the Sprat,
And the Willeby-Wat,—
But he never came back to me!
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