Three Nonsense Songs of Edward Lear

King and Queen of the Pelicans we;
No other Birds so grand we see!
None but we have feet like fins!
With lovely leathery throats and chins!
    Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
    We think no Birds so happy as we!
    Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
    We think so then, and we thought so still!

We live on the Nile. The Nile we love.
By night we sleep on the cliffs above;
By day we fish, and at eve we stand
On long bare islands of yellow sand.
And when the sun sinks slowly down
And the great rock walls grow dark and brown,
Where the purple river rolls fast and dim
And the Ivory Ibis starlike skim,
Wing to wing we dance around,--
Stamping our feet with a flumpy sound,--
Opening our mouths as Pelicans ought,
And this is the song we nighly snort;--
    Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
    We think no Birds so happy as we!
    Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
    We think so then, and we thought so still!

Last year came out our daughter, Dell;
And all the Birds received her well.
To do her honour, a feast we made
For every bird that can swim or wade.
Herons and Gulls, and Cormorants black,
Cranes, and flamingoes with scarlet back,
Plovers and Storks, and Geese in clouds,
Swans and Dilberry Ducks in crowds.
Thousands of Birds in wondrous flight!
They ate and drank and danced all night,
And echoing back from the rocks you heard
Multitude-echoes from Bird to bird,--
    Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
    We think no Birds so happy as we!
    Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
    We think so then, and we thought so still!

Yes, they came; and among the rest,
The King of the Cranes all grandly dressed.
Such a lovely tail! Its feathers float
between the ends of his blue dress-coat;
With pea-green trowsers all so neat,
And a delicate frill to hide his feet,--
(For though no one speaks of it, every one knows,
He has got no webs between his toes!)

As soon as he saw our Daughter Dell,
In violent love that Crane King fell,--
On seeing her waddling form so fair,
With a wreath of shrimps in her short white hair.
And before the end of the next long day,
Our Dell had given her heart away;
For the King of the Cranes had won that heart,
With a Crocodile's egg and a large fish-tart.
She vowed to marry the King of the Cranes,
Leaving the Nile for stranges plains;
And away they flew in a gathering crowd
Of endless birds in a lengthening cloud.
    Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
    We think no Birds so happy as we!
    Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
    We think so then, and we thought so still!

And far away in the twilight sky,
We heard them singing a lessening cry,--
Farther and farther till out of sight,
And we stood alone in thesilent night!
Often since, in the nights of June,
We sit on the sand and watch the moon;--
She has gone to the great Gromboolian plain,
And we probably never shall meet again!
Oft, in the long still nights of June,
We sit on the rocks and watch the moon;--
--- She dwells by the streams of the Chankly Bore,
And we probably never shall see her more.
    Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
    We think no Birds so happy as we!
    Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
    We think so then, and we thought so still! 

On the Coast of Coromandel,
Where the early pumpkins grow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,
One old jug without a handle,
These were all his worldly goods:
In the middle of the woods,
These were all the worldly goods
Of the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
Of the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.

Once, among the Bong-trees walking
Where the early pumpkins grow,
To a little heap of stones
Came the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
There he heard a Lady talking,
To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,
"'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones!
On that little heap of stones
Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!"
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.

"Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!
Sitting where the pumpkins grow,
Will you come and be my wife?"
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
"I am tired of living singly,
On this coast so wild and shingly,
I'm a-weary of my life;
If you'll come and be my wife,
Quite serene would be my life!"
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.

"On this Coast of Coromandel,
Shrimps and watercresses grow,
Prawns are plentiful and cheap,"
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
"You shall have my chairs and candle,
And my jug without a handle! -
Gaze upon the rolling deep
(Fish is plentiful and cheap) -
As the sea, my love is deep!"
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.

Lady Jingly answered sadly,
And her tears began to flow,
"Your proposal comes too late,
Mr. Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò!
I would be your wife most gladly!"
(Here she twirled her fingers madly)
"But in England I've a mate!
Yes! you've asked me far too late,
For in England I've a mate,
Mr. Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò!
Mr. Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò!

"Mr Jones - (his name is Handel -
Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.)
Dorking fowls delights to send,
Mr Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò!
Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle,
And your jug without a handle,
I can merely be your friend!
- Should my Jones more Dorking send,
I will give you three, my friend!
Mr. Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò!
Mr. Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò!

"Though you've such a tiny body,
And your head so large doth grow,
Though your hat may blow away,
Mr. Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò!
Though you're such a Boddy Doddy -
Yet I wish that I could modi-
fy the words I needs must say!
Will you please to go away?
That is all I have to say -
Mr. Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò,
Mr. Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò!"

Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,
Where the early pumpkins grow,
To the calm and silent sea
Fled the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
There beyond the Bay of Gurtle,
Lay a large and lively Turtle;
"You're the Cove," he said, "for me;
On your back beyond the sea,
Turtle, you shall carry me!"
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
Said the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.

Through the silent-roaring ocean
Did the Turtle swiftly go;
Holding fast upon his shell
Rode the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò,
With a sad primaeval motion
Towards the sunset isles of Boshen
Still the Turtle bore him well,
Holding fast upon his shell.
"Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!"
Sang the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò,
Sang the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.

From the Coast of Coromandel
Did that Lady never go;
On that heap of stones she mourns
For the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
On that Coast of Coromandel,
In his jug without a handle,
Still she weeps, and daily moans;
On that little heap of stones
To her Dorking Hens she moans
For the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.
For the Yonghy-Bònghy-Bò.

Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
                                     or SQUAT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?


Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffe cold,
                                     or HOT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
                                     or TROT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
                                     or COT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
                                     with a DOT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
                                     or BLOT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
                                     or PLOT,
                                     At the Akond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
                                     or shot,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
                                     GAROTTE?
                                     O the Akond of Swat!

Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
                                     a JOT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
                                     or WHAT,
                                     For the Akond of Swat?

At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
                                     or a LOT,
                                     For the Akond of Swat?

Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
                                     or a DOT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
                                     SHALLOTT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his stewart a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
                                     or a SCOT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
                                     or a GROTT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
                                     or a POT.
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
                                     or ROT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
                                     or a KNOT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
                                     or NOT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
                                     in a YACHT,
                                     The Akond of Swat?

Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what 
                                     Is the Akond of Swat!