Comes the morning, thrush will call,
from brambled hedge, or garden wall.
Sing he must, and sing he will,
though even to a silent hill.
And be there but echoes all along;
he will forget the day, but not his song.

I wandered about in the Windiewiddle,
with a duck, and a mouse, and a moose with a fiddle.
We paused for a while to piddle in a puddle,
as we mused, confused,
in the middle of a muddle.
"I think", said the mouse,
"We've gone astray!
We're all quite lost is what I'd say!".
"Oh my!", said the duck, "That's such bad luck,
but isn't it a lovely day!"
The moose, if he heard,
never ever said a word,
as he took up his fiddle to play.
Then poor ol me, confused ol me,
could say not yea or nay.
So if you wander about in the Windiewiddle,
with a duck, and a mouse,
and a moose with a fiddle;
don't piddle in a puddle,
too long in a muddle,
or you just might lose your way!

We were poor when I was young;
I had a washtub for a crib;
lug nut for a teething ring,
corn shuck for a bib.
But my crib did have a mobile;
on loan from dear ol Dad;
a worn and torn old photograph,
of a pork chop he once had.
He'd borrow it most every night,
when time to feed the family group;
and dip it in hot water,
so we all could have some soup.