In Marshy Hope there dwelt a crane
With legs so slim they made him vain,
And strolling young, just from the egg,
He slipped in mire and lost a leg;
A wheelwright made of slim rattan
Another leg to his knee pan,
And everybody pitying him,
They fed him so, he primped with whim,
And came so close his paunch to fill
He swept the tables with his bill.
All other cranes looked starved and thin
To see this cripple pity win;
They tackled him and tore his leg,
The rattan leg out from its peg.

Then sympathy went on a spell
And to his knee cap hung a bell,
That “ting-a-ling” went through the air
And set the startled cranes to prayer;
They thought he was the heavenly dove
Freighted with music from above,
And superstitious of such sounds
They fled from all the feeding grounds!
He was so fate he flew close down
And chased the flock till left alone!

As long as he was lame and begged
It was no loss to be one-legged,
And never knew an hour's dejection
Screaming or taking a collection;
As a melodeon he was poor,
And turned from every pious door:
They all said: “Shoo! Thou whip-poor-will!
You have a bell, therefore no bill!”

Ah! then he felt a thrill intense—
His music had no audience!

They heard his tinkle overhead
And ducked in pools, pretending dead,
And winged their ears to have him pass,
Like some priest's bell boy, fled from Mass.
Nobody but the bullfrogs woke
And to his tinkle raised a croak;
He could not run, but only flew,
And with his feathers scraped the dew,
Stood on one leg and with his thigh
Rang “ting-a-ling,” without reply,
Summoned the faithful like a Pope,
But no response gave Marshy Hope.

The buzzards heard his funeral knell—
The dying tinkle of his bell;
Picking his bones, they all agree:
“This stilt-bird died of Poetry!”