On my way to the coops,
On my way from the pens,
As I was going over
From the pigs to the hens,
I met a small object
Of not any use,
A poor little pin-feathered
Baby-girl goose,
Who was on her way back
From the hens to the pigs,
And was paddling in puddles
And treading on twigs,
And who left me enchanted
From then till I die
With the pretty gold picture
She put in my eye.
From Boundaries
