The Scarecrow

A poem by Walter Crane

O all you little blackey tops,
Pray don't you eat my father's crops,
While I lie down to take a nap.
Shua O! Shua O!

If father he perchance should come,
With his cocked hat and his long gun,
Then you must fly and I must run.
Shua O! Shua O!

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'The Scarecrow' by Walter Crane

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy