Poetry Archives

There once was a bird that lived up in a tree,
And all he could whistle was “Fiddle-dee-dee”—
A very provoking, unmusical song
For one to be whistling the summer day long!
Yet always contented and busy was he
With that vocal recurrence of “Fiddle-dee-dee.”

Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four,
That weird iteration repented him sore;
“I prithee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun,
For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done
That shall presently rid all creation and me
Of that ominous bird and his ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!”

Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son
His awfully truculent little red gun;
The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin,
The “bang” it came out where the bullet went in—
The right kind of weapon I think you’ll agree
For slaying all fowl that go “Fiddle-dee-dee”!

The brave little soldier quoth never a word,
But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird;
And, while that vain creature provokingly sang,
The gun it went off with a terrible bang!
Then loud laughed the youth—”By my Bottle,” cried he,
I’ve put a quietus on ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!”

Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: “My son,
Right well have you wrought with your little red gun!
Hereafter no evil at all need I fear,
With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!”
She kissed the dear boy.
(The bird in the tree
Continued to whistle his “Fiddle-dee-dee”)