The Suicide’s Grave
ON a tree by a river a little tomtitSang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sitSinging ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’?Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried,“Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?”With a shake of his poor little head he replied,“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,Singing “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave—“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my nameIsn’t Willow, titwillow, titwillow,That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”And if you remain callous and obdurate, IShall perish as he did, and you will know why,Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”