For both our oars, with little skill
By little arms are plied
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide
Ah, cruel three!
In such an hour beneath such dreamy wheather
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather
And what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together
Anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they persue
The dream child moving through a land of wonders
Wild and new
In friendly chat with bird or beast
And half believe it true
And ever as the story drained
The walls of fancy dry and faintly strove
That weary one to put the subject by the next time
It is next time the happy voices cry
Thus grew the tale of wonderland
Thus slowly one by one
It's quaint events were hammered out
And now the tale is done and home we steer
A merry crew
Beneath the setting sun
