All in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide

For both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied

While little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide

Our wanderings to guide



Ah, cruel three! In such an hour, beneath such dreamy weather

To beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather

Yet what can one poor voice avail, against three tongues together

Against three tongues together



Anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they pursue

The dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new

In friendly chat with bird or beast--and half believe it true

And half believe it true



And ever, as the story drained the wells of fancy dry

And faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by

The next time--"It is next time" the happy voices cry!

The happy voices cry!



Thus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly one by one

Its quaint events were hammered out--and now the tale is done

And home we steer

A merry crew

Beneath the setting sun