English poem
Young Sunday Hat
by Nora Archibald Smith (1859–1934)
Young Sunday hat, On a shelf she sat, All gay with ribbons and flowers. ’Twas Saturday night, And the morning light Would shine in a few short hours.
“Alas!” she said, “Far better dead Than mewed up here forever. No joy I know Imprisoned so, And people see me never!
“Why couldn’t I stay In the shop so gay, Where all was so bright and shining; Where all might admire, With eager desire, My ribbons and flowers twining?”
As thus she sighed, The door swung wide, A wee maid entered singing. With hat and fan, Away she ran, While Sunday bells were ringing.
The ride was long, The wind was strong, They passed above a river, Whose waters deep, Whose banks so steep, Set Sunday hat a-shiver.
How shall I tell What straight befell? The frolic breezes caught her; In spite of fears, Of cries and tears, They tossed her in the water.
She filled and sank Close to the bank, The mud her sorrows crowning. “Drive on!” she cried, “I can’t be dried, Far better leave me drowning.”
Now low she lies, Where bull-frogs wise Around her crown are sitting. While cool and slim About her brim The silver fish are flitting.