Ballad of the Lost Hare

Far from wild,

Far from wood,

In a field

Rich and good;

Once he fled,

Twice he fled,

Over meadow

And garden bed.

Near to hill,

And winding glade,

Lived the naughtiest

Hare e'er made.

Thrice he had

The rarest fun,

Fourth was just

Another one.

Father scolded,

Mother whipped,

But every day

Away he slipped.

Mad the races,

Jolly the Hare,

Little did he

Reck or care.

Brothers three,

And sisters two,

Cried and cried

As off he flew.

The winds might blow,

The waters flow,

Over the hills

Away he'd go!

Sore—sore—sore was the sobbing,

Wild—wild—wild was his race;

Only the woods to echo his footsteps,

Only the winds—his hiding-place.