Near to hill, Thrice he had
And winding glade, The rarest fun,
Lived the naughtiest Fourth was just
Hare e'er made. Another one.
Father scolded, Mad the races,
Mother whipped, Jolly the Hare,
But every day Little did he
Away he slipped. Reck or care.
Brothers three, The winds might blow,
And sisters two, The waters flow,
Cried and cried Over the hills
As off he flew. Away he'd go!
Sore — sore — sore was the sobbing, “Do n't you come home,” the father said,
Wild — wild — wild was his race; “Until you can stay in your little bed;
Only the woods to echo his footsteps, One more race and you keep away,
Only the winds — his hiding-place. Though you should beg and cry all day.”
Alack!
He never came back;
That swift-footed Hare,
That knowing Hare,
That beast who did n't
Reck nor care.
Whether swallowed alive,
Or hung on a rail,
Or dancing along
The waters pale,
Or running, or walking,
Or leaping a star,
He was gone so long,
And he went so far,
That the winds forgot
His very name;
And lost to memory,
Love, and fame,
He became in verity
The LOST HARE!