On the Tree Top

Bless us, and save us! What's here?

Pop!

At a bound,

A tiny brown creature, grotesque in his grace,

Is sitting before us, and washing his face

With his little fat paws overlapping;

Where does he hail from? Where?

Why, there,

Underground,

From a nook just as cosey,

And tranquil, and dozy,

As e'er wooed to Sybarite napping

(But none ever caught him a-napping).

Don't you see his burrow so quaint and queer?

Gone! like the flash of a gun!

This oddest of chaps,

Mercurial,

Disappears

Head and ears!

Then, sly as a fox,

Swift as Jack in his box,

Pops up boldly again!

What does he mean by thus frisking about,

Now up and now down, and now in and now out,

And all done quicker than winking?

What does it mean? Why, 'tis plain-fun!

Only Fun! or, perhaps,

The pert little rascal's been drinking?-

There's a cider-press yonder all say on the run!

Capture him! no, we won't do it,

Or, be sure in due time we would rue it!