Posts Tagged literature

A-sitting On a Gate

Posted by Andrew Flanagan in Somewhat Random on November 17, 2007

I’ll tell thee everything I can:

There’s little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,

A-sitting on a gate.
“Who are you, aged man?” I said,

“And how is it you live?”
And his answer trickled through my head,

Like water through a sieve.
He said “I look for butterflies

That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,

And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,” he said,

“Who sail on stormy seas;
And that’s the way I get my bread —

A trifle, if you please.”
But I was thinking of a plan

To dye one’s whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan

That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give

To what the old man said,
I cried “Come, tell me how you live!”

And thumped him on the head.
His accents mild took up the tale:

He said “I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,

I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call

Rowlands’ Macassar-Oil —
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all

They give me for my toil.”
But I was thinking of a way

To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day

Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,

Until his face was blue:
“Come, tell me how you live,” I cried,

“And what it is you do!”
He said “I hunt for haddocks” eyes

Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons

In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold

Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,

And that will purchase nine.
“I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,

Or set limed twigs for crabs:
I sometimes search the grassy knolls

For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
And that’s the way” (he gave a wink)

“By which I get my wealth–
And very gladly will I drink

Your Honour’s noble health.”
I heard him then, for I had just

Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust

By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me

The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he

Might drink my noble health.
And now, if e’er by chance I put

My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot

Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe

A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know–
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo–
That summer evening long ago,

A-sitting on a gate.
–Lewis Carroll

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