The Old Brown Hen

The bane of my life is an old brown hen, You never know where you will find her, or when; She's all day long on her wings or her feet, Tormenting the neighbours, or out in the street; There never was fence built so high it could pen Or keep out of mischief that old brown hen.

She scratches the flower-beds, takes out the seed, Then gets in the manger and scatters the feed; She wakes up the baby, and flies at the cat, And tears, like a fury, the fibre door-mat. Sometimes I could kill her in cold blood: but then She lays a fine egg—does the old brown hen.

She upsets the dust-box, fills up the sink, Then leaves on the white step a footprint like ink; She makes me so angry, the bird I could choke; I chase her with potsticks, and pelt her with coke. But would you believe it? Nine times out of ten She dodges them all, does the old brown hen.

No beauty or breed has the old brown hen, She never set foot in a fancier's pen; Her breast has no feathers, her tail is awry, And sometimes I think she is blind of an eye, Nobody would steal her, that's certain, but then They don't know her value—the old brown hen.

She's laying or hatching the whole year round, She nests in the long grass, and sits on the ground; And though she's a terror, and so full of tricks. If I do not get eggs I'm sure to got chicks. She never once brought out chicks fewer than ten— She pays for her keep, does the old brown hen.